Thanksgiving
by Sarcymar
Summary: This is a sequel to "Trailmarkers", though I'm aiming for this to stand on its own. Victoria is worried about Heath, who's finally home after several traumatic and violent months in a Nevada prison. She calls upon U.S. Marshal John Smith for help.
1. Chapter 1 - Sleeping Out

This morning, U.S. Marshal John Smith was a happy man. It was a beautiful late November day, and he was riding at an easy lope across the Barkley Ranch north pasture with Victoria Barkley. That remarkable and beautiful woman was riding at his side, looking as relaxed and in her element in the saddle as she did presiding over a formal dinner - or handling a rifle, for that matter.

John was fairly certain he'd be a happy man just about anywhere with Victoria at his side, happy in a way he hadn't been since he lost his wife Caroline almost 20 years ago. Victoria seemed to reciprocate his feelings. This astonishing fact left him humbled and amazed at the many unexpected blessings that had come into his life along with the terrible events of the summer.

John had first laid eyes on Victoria in July in Carson City, when she arrived there on a mission to retrieve her wounded and imprisoned son Heath. John, at that point, was urgently engaged in a mission of his own to rescue that boy from a deadly situation for which he felt in part responsible. On that hot July day, as John argued and pleaded before the judge for Heath's life, Victoria had walked into the room, and in the blink of an eye utterly captivated his heart and his imagination. He had wanted to court her from the moment he laid eyes on her, but with her family in such distress and her youngest son in mortal danger, John resolved not to speak of his interest to the lady until all was resolved and her family was safe at home. That is not to say, of course, that his feelings were not clearly evident from the first, to Victoria or to anyone else who cared to notice.

John looked over the beautiful open range of this northern section of the Barkley spread, rising as it did to the foothills of the Sierras to the east. About a quarter of a mile off, he could see two men working side-by-side to put in a new corral. Even at this distance, he recognized Nick Barkley: tall, broad-shouldered, dark haired, talking and gesturing even as he worked tirelessly. Working beside him was a smaller man, fair-haired. That would be Heath. He moved with deliberation, not talking or gesturing, but steadily matching Nick effort for effort.

Victoria had mentioned that since Heath had come to them last year, he and Audra had quickly discovered their shared love and expertise in horse breeding and training, and together were expanding that operation. This required more paddock space, so today he and Nick were assembling a much-needed corral.

Seeing the brothers at work, John thought of Victoria's observation that even now, Heath hadn't yet fully recovered from the prolonged starvation and illness he had suffered over the summer. He was a smaller man than his half-brother, true, but the difference between them was much more pronounced than it normally would be. John watched him keep pace with Nick. He knew how much Heath was struggling to regain the strength and mobility he typically would bring to his work on the ranch. He knew, too, how hard Heath fought to hide that fact from his family, and especially from Nick.

Almost two months ago, when her three sons had finally come back home in early October, Victoria had wired John in Sacramento just to let him know they had arrived safely. She knew that a deep friendship and respect had developed between the marshal and her sons, after everything they had been through together. John had become fond of all three men, each with their distinctive personalities, but with Heath, a strong bond of trust and friendship had taken root. It was this connection that prompted Victoria to contact John more urgently a week or so later, saying only that she was worried about Heath, and asking John to come to the ranch as soon as he could.

* * *

So much had happened since that day in June when Nick and Jarrod Barkley first contacted Marshal Smith, then Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal for the Nevada territory. The two men were desperate to recover their brother Heath, whom they had been forced to leave behind in a slave labor camp in Wellington, captive and falsely accused of theft and murder.

Smith and his deputies were camped en route to rendezvous with the Barkleys and investigate their claim. Jarrod Barkley, the lawyer, had galloped into the marshals' campsite in the middle of the night with the news that not only had Heath Barkley escaped and ridden north to meet up with his brothers at Leviathan Canyon, but he had single-handedly killed five lawmen from ambush, and wounded Adam Risley, the warden of Wellington Camp. According to Jarrod, Heath had been beaten, starved, and flogged near to death during the weeks Risley had held him in the camp, and had taken a bullet in the firefight at Leviathan.

The marshals rode overnight and reached Leviathan by daybreak. Marshal Smith surveyed the crime scene that greeted him when he arrived with his team: five dead lawmen including Sheriff Barnes, four with a single bullet to the head and one with a single chest wound; one wounded prison warden in handcuffs; and one escapee, known to be a combat-trained marksman, who claimed full responsibility for the carnage. The fugitive sniper - Heath Barkley - was quiet, cooperative, somber. He couldn't have looked more battered if he had been run over by a herd of buffalo. He was being tended to by his big, ferociously protective brother Nick, who hovered around him humming with barely contained rage and desire to kill Warden Risley with his bare hands.

Jarrod and Nick insisted that Heath had just saved them both from imminent execution at the hands of Risley's gunmen. The warden, however, reported that Heath Barkley was an incorrigibly violent prisoner who had murdered the camp doctor just prior to his escape, and then had killed the sheriff and his men resisting recapture.

So it came to pass that John Smith's first act upon meeting Heath Barkley that day, even injured as the boy was, was to shackle him and place him under arrest. The next morning, he turned his transport north and took his prisoner in chains to the Nevada State Prison in Carson City.

In the end, it took all of three months to clear Heath of the crimes of which he was accused and extract him from the lethal situation in which he had been trapped. Before they even made it to Carson City, Smith and his deputy found themselves in a gun battle - alongside Jarrod and Heath himself - fighting off vigilantes wanting to hang their prisoner. Hostile publicity and word of mouth had convicted the illegitimate Barkley son in the court of public opinion. Heath appeared to be facing life in prison on the one hand, or a messy death by lynch mob on the other.

As they traveled, the marshal continued his task of sorting out the facts of the case. He came to learn a few things about the quiet, fatherless young man he had taken into custody. Heath's embattled trail in life was one of survival in the face of privation, adversity, and violence. What John discovered for himself, in their time together, was that despite all this, Heath was not just a survivor. He had fought to keep his spirit intact - or at least not so broken that he couldn't work his way back to himself somehow. He had fought to keep his heart and his mind open. Heath seemed to know intuitively that without that, survival in and of itself didn't amount to much. John saw in Heath a man who was kind, introspective, stubbornly honest and even more stubbornly brave.

Despite his growing respect for Heath, however, the marshal had seen no alternative but to deliver the boy to the state prison as an accused murderer, pending the court's decision. Before long, however, John came to believe he had badly underestimated the dangers his prisoner faced, and had failed in his duty to keep him out of harm's way.

On the trail, Heath spoke to John of gratitude for the life and the family he had found, even as he faced being torn from the home he loved and had so recently come to. His brothers were devoted to him, and seemed to John to be good, loyal men both. But fear and despair can rise up and drown a man, and strong as his prisoner was, John knew Heath was struggling to keep his head above water.

For his part, Heath did not contend with the facts of his new reality: Smith had a job to do. He was the law, the man with the keys who was taking him to prison. Heath did not sense cruelty in him. The marshal was tough as iron, uncompromising on his responsibilities to the law, but he seemed honest, honorable. Heath chose to trust him. But as his situation went from bad to worse, week after week, Heath was losing ground. He needed an anchor, someone to hold to, to help him gather his strength. Drowning, he reached for John.

John had lost his own son to the war, at just Heath's age. The marshal was tough, but he was not an angry man, or hard-hearted. He could see the boy needed him. He could not help but offer himself. The relationship between the two men deepened, evolving from one of lawman and fugitive, to one almost of father and son.

* * *

By mid-September, it appeared the tangled and ugly Wellington case had been resolved. Heath was healing up and out of prison, cleared of all charges, and was finally out of danger, or so they all thought. The bad guys were well on their way to prison or the gallows. Believing all was well, Smith left Carson City for Sacramento to begin his new post as U.S. Marshal in charge of the 9th Federal District. Roughly two weeks later, John was shocked to learn that Adam Risley - as evil a man as Smith had ever encountered in his long career - had had one more gambit to play. The former prison warden, on the eve of his own trial and certain conviction, very nearly succeeded in trapping and executing Heath Barkley in front of an eager mob of citizens, and escaping with the Attorney General as a hostage.

Risley was stopped in a showdown that apparently involved two children with bows and arrows, the details of which John decided he would have to hear from Heath himself, as that story seemed somewhat incredible. A few days later, Risley himself was shot dead in the courtroom when he again attacked the Attorney General, prompting a general sense of relief with the close of that unpleasant case.

John too felt relief, especially when he heard the three brothers were finally safely home. Still, an abiding concern for Heath remained. He knew Heath's fiancee, Rivka, had been there at the ranch waiting for him to return. From what he had seen of their relationship, he expected her presence would have gone a long way to helping Heath recover. But Rivka had to go San Francisco to begin work as a physician at a new hospital, and could only be at the ranch intermittently. John wondered if that was part of Victoria's concern that led her to wire him so urgently. John didn't need much prompting at all to go to wherever Victoria was, but her telegram had read: _Worried for Heath. Please come soonest._ John had saddled up and was heading toward Stockton within the hour.

John rode late into that October night, coming south from Sacramento. He could have stayed with his sister Emily and her husband in Stockton, but he wanted to get to the ranch as soon as possible. So he planned, once he was on Barkley range, to find a place to sleep out for the night and then ride to the house in the morning. He cut off the road and took a trail that ran along the ridge overlooking the north pasture, slowing his horse to a walk. He expected in daylight he'd be able to see the house from here, and he knew there were a few streams and sheltered spots where he could camp.

Cresting the ridge he was surprised to see a small campfire not far ahead of him, under a stand of oak trees. Feeling now slightly alarmed and protective of the family asleep in the darkened house, Smith dismounted and approached quietly on foot, his sidearm in his hand. As he got closer, he saw only one horse tethered nearby, and one unoccupied bedroll and saddle by the fire. From off to one side in the dark, he heard the sound of a lever-action rifle, and a low, gruff voice.

"Put that gun down and step into the light where I can see you."

Smith complied, moving closer to the campfire. After a moment, he heard, "John...?" He looked up to see a young man step out of the darkness, a Winchester in his right hand.

"Heath," John said, relieved and surprised, but a bit concerned. What was the boy doing out here in the middle of the night, camped within sight of his own home? John holstered his sidearm and went to him. They embraced warmly, and Heath offered him some coffee.

Silently studying the younger man in the firelight, Smith could see now why Victoria was worried. Heath did look better than he had all summer, but that wasn't saying much, really. He was too thin, he was limping still, and he appeared tired and sore. That part wasn't too surprising - healing up from the kind of injuries Heath had sustained took time. What concerned John was the look in his eyes, as though he were helplessly watching a catastrophe from which he had just escaped. His face was drawn and preoccupied, his body tense, guarded, even as he invited Smith to join him with a smile. His affectionate welcome for the marshal was genuine, but the casual demeanor was a veneer. His restless hands and eyes were broadcasting his anxiety, and Heath became increasingly uncomfortable under Smith's steady, concerned scrutiny.

Finally, abruptly, Heath stood up and paced a short distance by the fire, twisting in his hands the bandanna he'd used to pick up the coffee pot. "Cut it out, John," he said, though not forcefully. "I'm _fine_ , I just -"

"Heath. C'mon, sit down. I was going to ask why you're bedding down out here with Charger, but I'm guessing it's because you're not sleeping much and having nightmares, and you don't want to trouble your family with that."

Heath stopped and stared out into the dark toward the house. "I put them through so much this summer. Don't want them to have to keep reliving it along with me every night. I figure at least this I can keep to myself." He sighed, turning back to kneel down and stoke the coals. He kept his eyes on the fire for a long moment, his expression morose. "Get feeling some nights like it would've been easier for everyone if I'd just died up on that ridge in Leviathan," he murmured, speaking so quietly John could barely hear him.

Heath realized he just opened a very big can of beans, saying such things to John. He chalked up that slip to the anxious hyper-vigilance that had him out of his bedroll and sighting his rifle on an approaching intruder, followed quickly by the relief and surprise of seeing John Smith appear by his campfire. Such a confession certainly had not been in his plans when he snuck out of the house tonight. His plan had been to take his nighttime demons a safe distance from the house, get through till morning as best he could with a little sleep in between nightmares, and ride back in time to have breakfast with the family like he hadn't gone anywhere. It's how he'd been getting by since he and his brothers had come back home and Rivka had left for San Francisco.

John could see Heath regretting already having thrown those cards on the table. "Listen, son, you need a decent night's sleep before you can have any reasonable opinions about what's easier or best for anybody else. That's hard enough for a person to figure out when they're well-rested -" John picked up an empty whiskey bottle from beside the campfire. "- or sober."

Heath glanced up, then shook his head, his eyes back on the glowing coals. "Yeah. I've tried that. Doesn't work - never does. I dumped it out."

"You have a good head on your shoulders, Heath. Don't let anyone tell you different." John looked back over his shoulder, then stood. "I'm going to go get my horse. Was planning to camp up here tonight anyway. How about I keep you company - ride in with you in morning."

Heath studied John for a long moment in the firelight. Then he smiled sadly. "Sure. Thanks. John, I -"

Turning to go, John stopped to listen.

"I never - - I never could figure out how to thank you for what you did - for that letter I got from the Army. I still don't know what to say. I don't think anyone's ever done anything like that for me in my life." Heath looked up at John from where he knelt by the fire, searching his face.

John's reply was somber. "It was no trouble at all, son. I was glad I was in a position to put things right."

Heath looked down, swallowed, suddenly close to tears. He made an effort to lighten the topic. "Now, the medal. That was a bit much, don't you think?" Heath laughed quietly, remembering. "I have no idea how you pulled that off. Were you aiming to impress my mother? 'Cause it worked."

"Funny thing," John said, smiling back. "Kinda wish I could take credit for that, especially if it impressed your mother."

"Why wouldn't you take credit?"

Now John laughed. Turning back, he crouched down so he could look Heath in the eye. "Listen. The government wanted me to take this job in Sacramento. It's a big job, a big territory, and a big _Federale_ title. So I reckoned I could ask for a few things to be taken care of before I'd accept. Top of my list was correcting the terms of your separation from the U.S. Army, and expunging that "dishonorable" crap they dumped on you. The rank of Sergeant followed naturally from your length of service, and the sad fact that by the time your unit was liberated from Carterson, you - at the age of sixteen - had the most combat seniority of the surviving NCOs."

Heath had gone still and silent as John spoke, listening, remembering.

"Once I got them to pull your file, Heath, to actually _look_ at it and understand - well, I had nothing to do with the rest of it, the medal or anything. Your service did all the talking." He gave Heath a pat on the leg and stood up with a groan, feeling a little stiff from the long ride. As an afterthought, he added, "- but if it impressed your mother, well, maybe we can just keep that between us."

Heath opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, tried again - then he just shook his head. Finally he took a breath and let it out with something like a laugh. "Yes, she is impressed with you, John. And I've so far found my mother to be an excellent judge of character." His eyes were bright in the firelight. "She asked you to come check on me, didn't she."

"Yep."

Heath took a deep breath, nodded. "Want to say I'm sorry, that she's wrong, she's worried for nothin' - and I know you need no excuse at all to come galloping down here." He tried to smile, failed. "I don't know what - what to do. Keep just getting through the day and waiting for it to get better. I can't - I don't know what else - what else -" He broke off, trying to settle his thoughts. Looked at his hands. "Seems she's right about both of us. I - I'm grateful to you. It's - well - it really is good to see you, John."

"You too, Heath. I'll be right back."


	2. Chapter 2 - Lest I Should Think of Shame

_Give me your hand, my brother, search my face;  
_ _Look in these eyes lest I should think of shame;  
_ _For we have made an end of all things base.  
_ _We are returning by the road we came._

 _Your lot is with the ghosts of soldiers dead,  
_ _And I am in the field where men must fight.  
_ _But in the gloom I see your laurell'd head  
_ _And through your victory I shall win the light._

 _"To My Brother"  
_ _\- S. Sassoon_

Winter was approaching. The warmth of the sun sank away earlier each day, and the clear cold air of the Sierra high country grew even colder, heavier, slumping down to weigh upon the warm, fertile atmosphere of the valley. The rains had been generous. The fields and deltas had been saturated, and as they sighed their wet, temperate breath to the nighttime sky, the chill mountain air laid down a heavy silencing hand and filled the valley with fog.

The two men sat together, watching as the fire burned low and the mist settled in thicker around them. John had allowed the talk ramble where it may, wanting mainly to listen, to get a feel for what Heath was struggling with here. He had a general idea, of course, before he even rode out of Sacramento, but he had no clear intuition yet as to how best to help. _Might as well start with the obvious question,_ he now thought.

John leaned forward to prod the fire, deliberately giving Heath a break from his observant gaze. "So...why do you think Victoria called for me, Heath? Why not Rivka? Why not Nick, or Jarrod?"

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a flash of pain on Heath's face before he turned away and focused on breaking up some sticks for the fire. John could see his jaw working. Then Heath dropped the kindling in front of him and leaned his elbows in his knees, raking his hands into his hair as he scowled at the ground. He sighed, and for a moment John thought he wouldn't answer. The boy looked frustrated, though, and John had to think that was a good thing. Frustrated was better than defeated.

Heath spoke to the pile of wood in front of him. "Why didn't she send to Rivka? Probably for the same reason I haven't just ridden to San Francisco myself any of these nights. 'Cause believe me, I've wanted to." He scrubbed his face with his hands, then fed a few sticks into the fire. "Feel a lot better when she's around. She seems to - to -" He hunted for the right words. "When she's with me, she - she helps me find my way back. Back to where I am. I know - I know that makes no sense -"

Glancing sidelong at him, John could see the bare longing on Heath's face as he stared into the fire. "I get feeling like I'm losing my mind, but - I can get back to myself, when she's with me. I can remember to be here, now. To stay in myself." He shook his head, frowning. "I don't really know how to say it. But the point is, I have to be able to do that whether she's here or not." He put his head back in his hands. "I want her. God, I want her so much. But I want her to be my wife - not a crutch. Not some medicine I need to keep from going crazy. And right now that's - that's how it feels. I have to find some other way. I just don't know how - what else to do -"

John could hear raw desperation in Heath's voice, could sense the monumental effort it was taking the boy to keep it under control. He decided he could help with that, for starters.

"I hear what you're saying, son. You're going to want to be a husband, not a patient. I get that, and I'm sure your mother does too." He nodded gravely. "But back it up here a minute. What about your mother, your brothers, Audra? Why me? Or do you want me to take a guess?"

Heath raised an eyebrow at him.

"For one thing, your mother probably thought you'd be more honest with me than with your brothers and sister. Or -" He held up a hand as Heath tried to interrupt. "Or it may be more accurate to say that I'd be less careful with your pride."

"My -"

"Yes, your pride. Son, you're sneaking into breakfast every morning looking like a ghost, hoping they won't notice you're distracted, exhausted and not sleeping - in your own bed or elsewhere. If you really think they don't see something's wrong, you're even more sleep-deprived than I thought."

"But I -"

"With Audra, I'd expect you to want to protect her from what you're feeling. But with your mother - you still wonder why she accepted you. You're afraid she's going to regret taking you in, like you're a stray dog who's causing problems. As if - when you're in your right mind - as if you could even _imagine_ her thinking such a thing."

Heath was starting to feel like he was getting a talking to. This was not a feeling with which he was familiar, and certainly not coming from a man - but he was pretty sure. Marshal Smith was scolding him, and he had a few more things to say.

"Nick - well, that's easy. For Nick, you are going to pull twice your load and then some, or drop dead doing it. Am I right? No matter that you were beat all to hell and back and you're still about 20 pounds shy of where you should be. And Jarrod - it's probably easier for you to talk to Jarrod, though you still don't want to be a burden to him. And he's not here all the time, any more than Rivka. My guess is you feel easiest with Silas. Or your horse."

"You're kind of a smartass, aren't you, Marshal."

"So I've been called. Though not usually by such a young pup as you."

Heath met his eyes then. He looked lost. John could feel his own desire to put his arms around him and comfort him. But Heath had pride, no doubt. That pride was entirely his. No family tradition had bestowed it upon him as an inheritance. It had nothing to do with Tom Barkley. It belonged to him, painstakingly scraped together and salvaged as it was from the battlefields of his growing up. John would honor that pride - and also tell it to get the hell out of the way so the boy could have a chance to recover.

"Listen, Heath. I'm a practical man. I'm not a doctor. But it seems plain to me that your thinking is going to go from bad to worse, and your physical recovery is only going to go so far, if you continue not sleeping or eating properly, and pushing yourself through the day like nothing is wrong. How about we tackle those basic things first and then see how you feel? You may find you're not as crazy as you think."

Heath nodded after a moment, a little flicker of hope in in his eyes. John was glad to see it. "I want you to try and sleep. I'll keep watch for a bit. OK? I'll be right here, thinking deep thoughts."


	3. Chapter 3 - Only Pine Cones

_And touch no more the thoughts, the moods,  
_ _That_ _win the easy praise;  
But venture in the untrodden woods_  
 _To carve the future ways._

 _Though far or strange or cold appear  
_ _The shadowy things I tell,  
_ _Within the heart the hidden seer  
_ _Knows and remembers well._

 _I think that in the coming time  
_ _The hearts and hopes of men  
_ _The mountain tops of life shall climb,  
_ _The gods return again._

 _"A New Theme"  
_ _\- A.E._

* * *

John woke to the strangely loud silence of the dense morning fog. The fire crackled, and he could smell coffee brewing. An unfamiliar _creak_ \- _whoosh - thunk_ carried clearly to him in his bedroll, and he realized this was the noise that had woken him.

John had sat up most of the night, wanting to make sure Heath got some sleep before morning. He'd been glad to see that Heath seemed a little calmer after they talked. Once John ordered him to bed, so to speak, Heath actually fell asleep almost immediately. He surfaced a few times when a wave of fear would come rolling through his dreams. They were small waves, though, not waking him fully, and not as intense as the nightmares John remembered him having in Nevada after he escaped from that lynching gang up in the foothills. Then, there were a few times during that first rough night when John needed Frank or one of Heath's brothers to help him get the boy safely settled down.

Tonight, as John kept the watch, he thought about this family that had become so important to him, and listened for any change in the even rhythm of Heath's breathing. Eventually, after several hours, John guessed dawn was approaching, though it was impossible to tell in the fog. He checked over the campsite and horses, checked on Heath one more time, and then laid down to get some sleep himself.

Now, opening his eyes, he looked for the source of the noise that had roused him. Half-hidden by fog, Heath was kneeling on the far side of the campsite, drawing a longbow and sighting on a target John couldn't see.

He was shirtless, his hair wet, as if he had just come from washing up in the creek. John stayed still and watched, as Heath drew and and sighted down his arrow, slowly, with what appeared to be complete concentration.

The skin of his forearms was still discolored from the prolonged abrasion of restraints. His back and arms were criss-crossed with scars, the signature of knives, guns, the lash. The sight didn't shock John, as he had been with Heath when much of that brutal writing was fresh on his skin. Nor did he feel rage - John had chosen to set that feeling aside as unhelpful. The authors of those scars were dead, or dying in prison. John felt instead the sadness of a bereaved parent, for all the things war and violence can take away from a person. And he felt gratitude for Heath's stubborn refusal to close himself off and quit.

Breathing steadily through his nose, Heath held his aim at its fullest reach. John could see muscles moving under his skin, beginning to shiver with the effort, but his breathing stayed even, his face and body otherwise relaxed. Only a slight flicker of strain showed around his eyes. There was one more slow breath in.

\- _Breathe_ _in. H_ _old. Focus on the target. Release._

 _\- Whoosh_ _. Thunk._

Heath lowered the bow, blue eyes narrowed at the unseen target. He nodded, seeming to be satisfied.

"Pine cones. Only pine cones," he said to himself, firmly.

"Only pine cones?" John had to ask.

Heath turned, slightly surprised. "Did I say that out loud?"

"Yep."

"Been out shooting too much by myself, I guess. Talking to myself."

"So. Pine cones?" John asked again.

Heath smiled fondly. "Something Artemis said to me. You remember Mike's little girl? The one with an eye like a sharpshooter who was always riding around with a bow and arrow with her twin brother?"

"Yeah. The wild one who got you practicing with a bow when your shoulder was healing up. I see you've taken her coaching to heart."

"She'd use pine cones for targets. She'd tell me to focus on the target and not on the pain. But sometimes -" Heath looked away, remembering. "- sometimes the target turns into someone or someplace else in my head. She could tell. She'd remind me. _Only pine cones_. And she didn't take no for an answer." He smiled down at the bow in his hand, then braced it on the ground and released the bowstring. "How she got so wise so young, I don't know. But she was a good coach."

John stood, stretched, brushed himself off. "How's the arm now?"

"Ornery. Sometimes downright mean. Hell, everything hurts when I get up in the morning, though I loosen up some once I get moving. Mainly this right leg and shoulder that give me trouble, but I keep working at 'em."

"That doesn't surprise me."

John walked with Heath into the fog to retrieve his arrows. It became apparent that the target, wherever it was, was not visible from the campsite. When they arrived at the Digger Pine Heath had chosen, they found a tight cluster of six arrows in the trunk about 4 feet off the ground. "These trees have enormous pine cones," Heath said. "The nuts are great for eating. I'd like to practice shooting the cones off the branches, but in this fog, I don't think I'd be able to find 'em after."

John looked back the way they had come. No sign of the campsite. "OK, I give up. How do you aim at tree you can't see?"

Heath shrugged. "I saw it once through the fog." Wasn't much different than sighting his rifle on a man who just lit a match in the dark, so long as the target isn't moving.

They started back, John smiling and shaking his head. "And how about the ranch? You been able to stay ahead of Nick?"

Heath glanced briefly at him before he knelt down to start rolling up his gear, an anxious look, quickly masked. John thought maybe he would touch a nerve with that question. From what he'd seen of their relationship, he sensed Heath wanted to dismiss the challenge with the understated but humorous bravado he typically used to tease his competitive older brother. He couldn't muster it, though, and he looked bereft. Then it seemed to John that Heath deliberately shook that off, replacing it with frustration and a stubborn impatience with himself. "Barely keeping up, to be honest," he admitted gruffly as he tied off his bedroll. He couldn't entirely hide a grunt of pain as he stood with his saddle in his hands and limped toward Charger. He spoke back over his shoulder as he tacked up the horse.

"One thing I think you're right about, Marshal. I think I actually got some sleep last night, and I don't feel nearly so beat down this morning. You're looking a bit scruffy, though. Got some warm water and soap there, if you want a shave. Before we head down to the house, and breakfast, and my mother, and all that -" He gave John a quick smile as he reached for his shirt.

John ran a hand over his rough face. He pictured Victoria at the house, and suddenly the unflappable lawman felt warm and strangely aware of his heart beating in his chest. He laughed at himself. "Want to shave? You bet I do." He pulled out his pocket watch and noticed it had stopped. "You have any idea what time it is?"

"5:45."

"That a guess?"

"No, it's 5:45."

"Your brothers told me you have a clock in your head, you always know what time it is."

"Something like that, yeah."

"OK, if you say so. I'm setting my watch by you." Turning in place, he gazed at the dense gray fog in all directions as he wound his watch. "Good thing I ran into you out here, Heath. Don't know how I'd find my way to your house otherwise."

Heath chuckled. "It remains to be seen how well I can scout us home. Reckon we oughta make it there sometime today, if I can get us back to the road and we don't ride in circles."


	4. Ch 4 - I Saw It Once Through The Fog

"Boy, it's little early in the season for a tule fog like this," Heath commented from up ahead. "Usually don't see it this thick until December. Must be 'cause of all that rain we just had."

There was an occasional hint of a morning sky far above them, but no sunlight reached them on the ground. A few sparse bird calls came piercing through the gray. Their horses' hooves sounded sharp and clear in the muffled quiet. The two men rode at a walk, presumably toward the Barkley Ranch road, though John was relying entirely on Heath's familiarity with the terrain. He had to concentrate to a bit to even keep him in sight; there were moments when the fog was so thick his own horse's ears were hard to see.

As they rode, John mulled over a seemingly simple answer Heath had given him to a question earlier that morning.

 _"I give up. How do you aim at a tree you can't see?"_

 _Heath shrugged. "I saw it once through the fog."_

That brief exchange kept rolling through his mind as he followed Heath's cautious progress along the ridge. _I saw it once through the fog._ Such a spare, uncomplicated explication. Nonetheless, it seemed important, as John pondered how to help Heath re-enter the life for which he had fought so hard.

* * *

"Mother, do you see them yet?" Audra called. She came out to stand by her mother on the veranda, dressed in riding clothes and scanning the featureless fog bank outside. "I want to ride out and look for him."

"Audra, that would be foolish. And certainly no-one will be going out to search alone."

"What if he's hurt and needs help? Or can't find the road? I could just stay on the main road and call to him, I wouldn't get lost that way."

"Alright, maybe, but not yet. It's still early, and you're not going out alone. When Nick is done in the smithy, he can go with you. Though the fog may clear out by then."

Victoria did her best to mask her own anxiety. Glancing inside, she caught Silas' eye and furrowed brow as he also watched for Heath's return.

Her worry ranged well beyond the temporary hazards of tule fog. As John Smith had correctly surmised, the family could see that Heath was struggling. Silas had known immediately, the moment the brothers came home. Heath's worsening state became apparent to Victoria once Rivka and Jarrod left for San Francisco. Heath had stopped sleeping in the house at that point, and Victoria turned to Silas to help her understand what was happening.

She did not confront Heath about it, though, allowing him to pretend that he was going out to work before breakfast. At that point Nick and Audra still seemed not to question.

Not sleeping in the house, however, had rapidly evolved into not sleeping at all. Heath's appetite, which had been skittish at best, soon had jumped the fence and run off. Audra and Nick started to notice his deteriorating condition.

Audra had had some luck with Heath when they were in the barn or the paddock, talking and planning around horses. He'd seem at times almost like himself. But he was too restless and distracted to play a hand of cards, or sit still to talk about much of anything, though he continued to try, as much as he could.

Around the ranch, he seemed forgetful, missing details that Nick had come to count on Heath to remember, or at least write down in his notebook. Nick had noticed Heath was often struggling with physical tasks he'd normally not think twice about. This week they'd had a few days of heavy lifting, putting up stores of feed and hay bales in a barn on the eastern range. More than once, Nick had found Heath kneeling on the ground, trying not to pass out. Heath would give some thin excuse - and then push himself harder.

All of this was on Victoria's mind as she looked into the dense gray fog. Heath was home, but he wasn't. His heart and mind really weren't all the way home and safe. She could see he was being torn away from them, over and over and over again.

She had started to suggest, one evening this week, that she contact Rivka to see if she could come back for a visit before Thanksgiving, but the look of alarm in Heath's eyes at the suggestion stopped her from going on.

Victoria worried that Heath was tired and distracted and could be injured or lost out in the fog. She worried that he'd feel hopeless and kill himself after one too many nightmares. She worried that he might feel he's a burden to the family and ride off and not come back. And she worried terribly that he was alone. John had wired to say he was on his way, but who knew how far he had gotten in this weather?

Audra said, "Look at Nike! I wonder if someone's coming."

Heath's chestnut mare was whuffing the air and trotting up and down the paddock fence in a way she only did when Heath - and Charger - were nearby. She was quarter horse, a natural barrel racer, and Heath was certain she had saved his life in Nevada. Audra and Nick had tracked her down outside Carson City after the whole ordeal last month, and bought her as a homecoming gift for Heath.

Victoria ran out into the courtyard. She almost cried when relief when she saw Heath's familiar silhouette emerge from the fog and ride along the fence to greet Nike and give her some attention. Then Heath turned in the saddle and she heard him call out.

"John! C'mon and meet this pretty little firecracker you sent Nick and Audra huntin' after for me. I don't think you've been properly introduced."

 _John._ Victoria felt joy, more relief, and a nice healthy wave of attraction as she saw the tall marshal ride up beside Heath. She watched them exchange a few smiling comments about the horse. It made her glad to see some animation in Heath's expression, and the easy way he leaned a little toward the marshal as John clapped him on the back.

Turning toward the house, they could see the women waiting now, and they cantered the rest of the way, Nike loping alongside in the paddock. Audra vaulted the low fence of the veranda and ran out as the two men dismounted. She practically tackled Heath with her hug.

"Oh, I was so worried about you! I was about to go out hunting for you. Are you ok? Where are you coming from?" She rounded on John. "And you - why do I think this is your fault somehow?"

John opened his mouth, but was at a loss for words. He deferred to Heath.

"Now, Sis, don't be blaming the marshal. He was out looking for me and it was a slow ride getting back. Mother, Audra, I'm sorry I worried you, really."

"It's all right, dear. But with this weather, you should be more careful riding out before dawn." She thought Heath looked brighter this morning than he had in a good long while, and she smiled warmly at John.

"Yes ma'am. Audra, c'mon with me, we'll put the horses away."

Victoria watched them go, Tom Barkley's two blonde children walking in step side by side. She marveled as she often did at the love that flowed so easily between them. It was as if they had spent their whole lives as brother and sister, as if they were -

"They could be twins, those two," John commented affectionately. "It's hard to believe they didn't grow up together."

Surprised, she turned to him, smiling. "I was just thinking the same thing -" He had removed his hat, and she caught her breath slightly as she met his eyes.

They were gray, she thought, but with touch of blue, and gold - and their gaze was resting upon her almost reverentially. She had no desire to look away - they were surrounded by fog, in any case, there wasn't anything else around them to be seen. She wanted to move closer to him, wanted his touch. She felt this so strongly, in fact, that it seemed her whole world would be wrong and out of kilter unless he took her in his arms. She reached up and touched the side of his face, gently. "John. I'm so glad you came. Not just for Heath. I've missed you so much."

Feeling as though he'd just been offered the universe, any words of casual conversation that he might have spoken evaporated. John reached out and brought her close. He searched her eyes, seeing in them a welcome into her heart and a future unthought of even a few months ago. "Victoria. Say the word. At your side is where I've wanted to be since the moment I saw you."

She tilted her face up to him with a smile. "I think you can kiss me. We seem to have perfect privacy, right here in the middle of the courtyard."

It could have been a crystal clear day, and John still would have seen nothing but Victoria. He kissed her, there in the middle of the courtyard. He inhaled her lovely scent and felt her strong hands move over his back and pull him close, and he wondered how it was that he had survived before without her in his arms.


	5. Chapter 5 - You're Not Fine

Returning from the tack room, Audra watched her brother move around his horse. His back was to her, grooming Charger as the colt stood in his cross ties and munched hay. The marshal's horse had already been brushed and fed and was dozing in a stall.

Audra loved her brother Heath absolutely. She also loved horses, and she particularly enjoyed having both at the same time. She and Heath had a connection around horses, and a special respect and admiration for each other when it came to this. She loved to watch him at it, especially lately, when those were the only times Heath seemed peaceful or even fully present.

It was breaking her heart. He was standing there, right in front of her, and she missed him so much.

She'd had an idea, though.

"Heath?" she said, coming up behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder, wondering at her tentative tone. "Something the matter, Sis?"

She came to stand next him, leaning against the horse's shoulder so she could see Heath's face. "I need your help," she said. "Mother and Nick told me not to bother you with this, that you already had too much to worry about, but I don't know what else to do."

He turned to face her. "What is it, Audra?"

Her brow furrowed. "It's one of my rescue horses. The big black mare I found at the fair, you remember, the one with all the harness scars that looked like she had been used as a draft horse?"

"I remember. How is she?"

"Everyone told me not to bring her home, that she was hopeless. I don't know. I've tried everything I can think of. I'm starting to think they're right, but it makes me so sad."

"What's she doing?"

"I don't know where to start. I can't stable her - as soon as she's in a stall, she starts kicking and screaming like she's terrified. She'll let me halter her and lead her, but so often she's trembling. And if anyone else comes close when I'm standing with her, she'll lay her ears back and charge them. I don't know anything about her history. Would you come look at her at least, Heath, tell me what you think? I don't want to give up on her, not yet."

"Sure. I'd be happy to, honey."

" _Heath_!"

Audra, Heath, and Charger all startled as Nick's voice boomed through the barn.

"Heath, where the hell are you? It's about damn time you decided to show up! Oh. Excuse me, Audra. Sorry for the language."

Audra rolled her eyes.

Not losing any momentum, Nick rounded on his brother, waving two handfuls of branding irons and associated tools. "Heath, you're going to have to fix these. This is the best I can do. I just don't have your patience for it."

"Sure thing, Nick." He laid the pile of irons neatly on top of a hay bale. "I thought I'd head out this morning to the orchard we're clearing, get those stumps pulled so we can lay out where the irrigation is going to be."

Nick scowled, his eyes uncharacteristically restless. He was uncomfortable, and being uncomfortable he fell back on the familiar approach of barking orders. "No. Forget that. I need you to finish this stuff in the smithy. We've got a whole herd coming down from summer pasture gonna need these brands, and we're nowhere near ready."

Even as he spoke, Nick could see Heath getting his ruff up, and he was beginning to regret not having a better strategy in mind before he came barreling into the barn. He had brooded off and on all night about his little brother, unable to banish the image of him kneeling, completely winded, on the floor of the hay loft, stubbornly insisting he was "fine". Nick had decided enough was enough, and he was going to - _going to **what**? _Nick asked himself for the hundredth time. _Order him to get better? Yell at him until he gets better?_ He sighed and looked at Heath. Nick had stepped in it already, he could see that, and Heath was ready to step right back at him.

" _Forget_ that? It'll take me all of an hour to fix the mess you made in the smithy, Nick. Then what? What about that orchard, and the trees that we need to get planted while we still have some rain? And what _about_ that herd we've gotta bring down and brand? And the new barn for the breeding stock, and the paddocks we have to finish? You want me just banging iron in the smithy?"

Audra, distressed, was looking back and forth between the two men, seeing the coming collision clearly, and at a loss how to stop it. She knew this was not business as usual. Making the atypical decision _not_ to jump into the fray, she turned and went to get her mother.

Neither man noticed her leave. Shaking his head, his jaw tight, Heath tried to brush past Nick. He was feeling cornered, and right then all he wanted was to get out of that barn. Nick moved to block him, with an open hand on his arm. "Hold on, now, Heath. We're not done here."

Heath's voice was low, controlled. "Get out of my way. I'm fine. Just - just get out of my way." He moved to sidestep his brother.

Nick's hand fisted in the sleeve of Heath's jacket, holding him in place. He saw him wince in pain. Nick felt terrible about it, but he didn't know what else to do. "No. No, Heath, I won't."

They locked eyes. "You start this, Nick, and believe me I'm gonna finish it," Heath growled, though the menace of his words was diluted by the equal mix of desperation Nick was seeing in his eyes. Still, Heath tried again to push past, and in frustration Nick grabbed the front of his jacket and shoved him back into the barn. Heath staggered a few steps, catching himself against the stall door.

"Nick - please - let me g-" A rasp of fear had crept into his voice, which only made him more angry. Closing his eyes for a moment, Heath made a conscious effort to unclench his fists. "Please get out of my way."

" _No_. You're not "fine". And just _wanting_ to be won't make it happen."

Heath's eyes moved from Nick, to the door, back to Nick. Outside all that could be seen was the flat gray of fog. Nothing there to anchor himself to. Heath struggled to focus instead on the presence of his brother, the smell of the barn, the sounds of the horses, but it wasn't helping fast enough. Any minute now, he thought, he might be begging.

"Nick. Move." Almost pleading.

Unseen behind Heath, Audra was bringing John and Victoria to the barn. All Heath could see was Nick, shaking his head no, moving in on him, blocking his way.

Heath's felt his grip on _who-where-when-why_ slip another few notches, and his head was suddenly full of rage. Months, years worth of rage. He swung on Nick and hit him as hard as he could.

Nick was knocked nearly off his feet but recovered quickly. "Damn, boy, you can still throw a punch, I'll give you that," he muttered, wiping the blood from his lip.

Heath backed up, hating what was happening, hating that he couldn't seem to stop himself, wishing he could just disappear. The tears in his eyes gave him two of Nick coming at him. Heath tried to hit him again and connected with nothing. _I swung at the wrong one, I guess,_ he thought, _go figure,_ grabbing at a railing to catch his balance. Nick closed on him in an instant, taking him hard to the floorboards under his greater weight.

Even with the wind knocked out of him, Heath fought, but he was fighting blind and mindless now, and Nick easily pinned him down and locked him up. He put his head down next to Heath's. His brother's harsh breathing sounded like weeping in his ear. Nick spoke quietly, trying to reach him.

"Heath. Heath, stop it. Stop fighting me. Please."

An inarticulate growl of rage and frustration came from him as Heath made a futile attempt to throw Nick off. Then he fell back to the floor, panting, his face a picture of grief and defeat.

They were silent for a long moment, the only sounds their breathing and the cooing flap of doves up in the dusty rafters.

"Almost six months, Nick."

Spoken so distantly he could hardly be heard. Nick dropped his head slightly to listen.

"Almost six months since I've been of any damned use around here, been any damned use to anyone."

"So that's what matters? Whether you've been of use?"

"Matters to me."

"OK, Heath, OK. Let's just suppose that's all that matters, whether you're _of use_ ," Nick growled. He stayed right in close, speaking low into his ear, but not loosening his lock on Heath in the slightest. "If that's true, then I could also say you're the best damn bit of livestock this ranch has ever had, and with brains besides. That makes you a valuable asset. What makes you think I'd take such a valuable, useful workhorse and treat him like garbage? Push him hard as I can when he's lame, ignore the fact that he's not eating, run him all day and night and then put him away wet and sore and hungry? When have you _ever_ seen me treat an animal that badly? _When_? Would _you_?" Nick wanted to shake him till he listened, but limited himself instead to ratcheting up the grip he had on Heath's jacket collar.

Heath grimaced as Nick pressed him harder into the floor. "Nick, _damn you_ -" he gritted out. His frustration boiled up one last head of steam and he fought to get loose, not gaining even an inch.

Teeth clenched, Nick held him down, feeling close to tears himself. Heath felt noticeably thinner, weaker in his hands, and it was scaring him. "Dammit, _think_ , Heath. Use your head, for God's sake. Does that _really_ make any sense to you?"

Heath gave up. The wordless rasp of his struggling gave way to a hoarse sobbing as he let his head fall back to the floor. Anger cooled, becoming tears that wet his face. He turned his face away, eyes closed, ashamed and fighting back the sounds of grief that threatened to come flooding out. Nick rested his forehead down on Heath's shoulder, both of them drained and out of breath.

After a time, they grew quiet. His voice still thick, Heath said to the floor, "I want Audra back in here. She's the only person who isn't yelling at me this morning."

Nick's short laugh was muffled. "Oh, just give her a chance to get going on you, little brother. You're gonna miss me then."

"You're probably right about that."

"You're not going out pulling stumps. If you'd just stop fighting with me, Heath, we could figure this out." Nick still hadn't let go of him. He didn't yet think he had the concession he needed.

"Nick - let me up."

"No. Not until you stop being so pigheaded."

"What is it you want me to say?"

Before Nick could answer, he was interrupted by John Smith's low, measured voice.

"Well, I'm glad to see _this_ went well," John commented from where he stood with Audra and Victoria. "See, I considered several options last night when I ran into Heath. I decided against beating the tar out of him to get him to be sensible, though I did weigh that option on its merits. I went with the calm, reasoned approach. Nick, however, has indicated that perhaps we should keep several strategies on the table. Victoria, Audra, what do you think?"

From the floor, Heath growled.

"Nick, let him go," Audra said gently. "Heath has the best sense of direction of anyone I know. He just needs to let us help him get back to himself." She went and sat on the ground by her two brothers.

John nodded, shared a smile with Victoria. It was an echo of the thoughts Victoria had just been sharing with him, when Audra came running distressed from the barn. _I saw it once through the fog._

"I have to agree with Audra," said Victoria. "Absolutely. In fact, amazingly, I don't think I even have anything to add to that."

Nick let him go and pushed himself up to sit against a hay bale, grinning ruefully as he raked his hair out of his face. Heath rolled to his back with a groan. He wiped his eyes and looked up at Nick and Audra with a half a smile. He gave Audra a wink.

"Y'know, girl, that big brother of yours is tryin' to bully me. But I do think he means well."


	6. Chapter 6 - A Long Long Way From My Home

The tule fog still lay thick in much of the valley, but was beginning to fragment. The rising sun won through here and there to the green and gold of the pastures, but within the banks of mist the sunlight illuminated the fog to a blindingly opaque and pearly white. It was a beautiful, changing landscape to see from the comfort of one's back porch, but it remained treacherous and unpredictable to one trying to move through it. Not much work was going to get done out in those fields, it seemed, until later in the day.

Charger was still in his cross ties, restless and wondering why Heath was lying on the floor instead of completing their usual grooming routine. He snorted, and banged a forefoot on the floorboards several times. Heath could feel the horse's impatience right up his spine, as the hoof strikes reverberated through the wooden planking.

He lifted his head. "OK, Champ, OK. I'm coming." He shared an amused look with Audra and started to sit up.

Nick reached to help him. Heath startled slightly at the movement, for a moment tense and on guard. Then their eyes met, and Heath relaxed, annoyed with himself. He murmured his thanks to Nick as he helped him to his feet.

Once he was up, Nick was immediately again fidgety, uncomfortable. He busied himself with brushing straw and dust from the back of Heath's jacket.

"Easy, big brother," Heath said, as Nick's attentions almost knocked him off balance. "Seems like you're fixin' to whup me all over again."

"I'll be happy to, you don't behave yourself," Nick muttered.

"Look, Nick, I'll take care of the smithy, then Audra and I have some horse business to take care of, and I promise to eat lunch. Sound OK to you?"

"Hmph," Nick made a skeptical noise. He stopped and looked Heath up and down, scowling. "Alright. I guess I'll go work on the books, seeing as nothing's gonna get done outside this morning." He went to grab his hat, then paused in front of Heath again, his expression now worried and remorseful. "Look, Heath, I - I'm sorry. I'm just -"

"Nick. Don't apologize. I get it. And I'm grateful to you, once I cool off some. Really."

Nick nodded, then gave him a solid smack on the shoulder as he turned to go. Heath winced, narrowing his eyes at his brother's retreating back.

" 'Course," he drawled, as if talking to himself, " _I'm_ not the one with the fat lip."

Nick stopped, his back still turned. Heath grinned. Nick sighed, shook his head, and went to go do the books.

"Hey, Audra. Why don't you help me fix this mess Nick made with the irons, and then you can show me that mare?"

"I'd love to."

* * *

John walked back to the big house from the barn with Victoria at his side, his arm around her shoulders, loving the feeling of her warmth against him. Returning to the veranda, they sat together on a settee and looked out over the several paddocks close to the house, and the clouds that moved upon the ground and among the horses. She leaned back against his shoulder, and curled her legs up on the cushion beside her. He could tell she felt a bit more relaxed now that her boys had had such a productive "dialogue" - such as it was between stubborn cowboys. He smiled, and she tilted her head back to look up at him.

He was smitten by her, yes indeed. He had to kiss her while she was looking up at him like that. And then she sighed and reached up and ran her hand through his hair, filling his usually reasoned mind with a vivid desire to scoop her up and carry her to the closest available bedroom for the rest of the day. He managed to resist that urge with a conscious effort, but his hands at her waist said plenty, and she smiled a bit wickedly at him. "Marshal, there'll be plenty of time for that," she laughed.

"Oh, I hope so, ma'am. I'm aiming to be a gentleman, but..." His fingertips traced up her back, giving her chills. He studied her with an intensity that was making her feel a bit flushed and overheated. He saw the rise of color in her cheeks, and he wanted to beg her right then and there to marry him.

He took a deep breath and instructed himself to pull back a bit on the reins and remember why she called him here in the first place.

"Do you feel a little more at ease now that Nick has worked his subtle diplomacy on his brother? Not that it's fixed things, but I think he's broken down a few closed doors."

Victoria, in her turn, was watching John closely, and did not miss his conscious decision to change the subject. She was not offended by it - John Smith's feelings for her were plain to see, the attraction was mutual, and she appreciated his ability to think outside of his own immediate gratification. In the back of her mind - the part of her mind that was still very much enjoying the movement of his hands over her back – she suspected that ability boded well for what John Smith might be like as a lover.

She laughed at his description of Nick. "Do I feel better? Yes, yes I do - because at least it's out in the open now, some of it, anyway. I think the worst has been knowing something's not right with Heath, and pretending, waiting, worrying. Now I feel we can start doing something to help. Though I don't know what that is. Do you?"

"I'll tell you what I told Heath. First thing, I think, is the basics - sleep, food, physical recovery. There's no way to really know how he's doing or what he needs when he exhausted and starving. No food and no sleep will make any person feel crazy to some degree."

"So what do you propose?"

"I have work to do over the next two to three weeks in this part of the state that I can do just as easily based from Stockton as Sacramento. Heath, in fact, could be a big help to me with parts of that job, so I'd be glad to have him around. I want to stay close to the ranch. I very much want to hang around you," he continued, smiling. "But I truly do want to be gentleman. If it were solely up to me, I'd camp outside your bedroom door until you chose to let me in. But I suspect that would be unseemly."

"Unseemly - perhaps. That, Marshal, is the least of my concerns." she replied, "I can't imagine being so foolish as to leave you out in the hallway." She held his gaze, smiling, making his heart race. Then with a quick sigh, she directed her thoughts back to the issues at hand. "For the moment, though, John, why don't you stay in the line shack by the north pasture, the one near the new barn for the breeding stock? I'm guessing Heath's going to want at least to be working on getting that ready before the new year, if Nick can keep him from pulling stumps and digging irrigation ditches. That's the project Heath loves, anyway, and he and Audra have been developing that together."

John nodded. That sounded good. There was something else, though, that probably should be discussed with the whole family, but he wanted to bring it up to Victoria first.

"I think we should let Heath know that if he's still feeling like he'd be better off not sleeping in the house, first of all, he should say so. I can understand him not wanting to disturb the house with something he doesn't have control over – I wouldn't want to, if it were me. But this not knowing where he is in the middle of the night – that's not safe, and it's no good for anyone. If he is going to sleep out, he can sleep out at the shack. At least that way we know where he is, he's out of the weather, and I can keep an eye on him. I'm hoping that part of it will get better soon – it did back in Carson City. The nights were really bad for a while back then."

* * *

It was hot in the smithy, as Audra worked the bellows and the coals flared. She and Heath were both perspiring, and they'd opened all the doors and windows, hoping for a breeze. Heath left his shirt on, she noticed, and she was pretty sure she knew why.

Watching him shape the red-hot iron with easy concentration, Audra noticed, as she often did, how such tasks helped him feel calm, focused. His work was not an interruption to his life, or an obstacle to be conquered or avoided, as it was for many people. Nor was it solely done for the reward. It was his way of being in the world, doing such necessary tasks, large and small, and doing them well.

She worried for him, though. She thought back to an afternoon when she visited Heath in prison in Carson City. He had been sick near to death with pneumonia in that prison, and was still recovering. At that point he had been locked up for months and was still facing the prospect of trial for manslaughter and a long jail sentence. The marshal had escorted her into his cell. She found him standing with his head resting against the metal bars, his eyes closed. The fact that he seemed to have fallen asleep standing up spoke to his debilitated condition. But when she woke him, catching him by surprise, it was the unguarded expression of utter defeat and hopeless exhaustion on his face that she had never quite been able to forget.

Heath did all could to protect his family, and especially to protect his little sister, both from real enemies in the world and from the enemies that could rampage in his head. That look on his face that day had given her a glimpse into the burden he carried, the personal experience of evil that he held off at arm's length as much as he possibly could. Part of her wanted to burst into tears in that moment, but instead she had hugged him, and talked with him about horses, and made him teach her to play poker. He rallied. He smiled and joked with her, but she had glimpsed the depth of the pit, and seen how far he had to climb to come back to her.

She promised she would never leave him alone down there. He might not ever again let her see what she had seen that day, but she swore she would stand at the mouth of Hell if need be so that he wouldn't be alone.

Heath hadn't wept that day in the prison, in fact, he had seemed to be looking back at her from a place so merciless that tears were pointless. Today, though, she had seen him cry, and she prayed that was a hopeful thing. She thought to herself she had never seen him cry before, but then realized with a start that wasn't true.

There _was_ one other time. It was over a year ago, very soon after Heath came to them. It was late evening, and they had all just come back from Stockton together, energized and happy after the commemoration of her father's statue in town. They had had dinner, and drinks and dessert, and she remembered everyone's mood was rather giddy. Not Heath's, but everyone else's. In retrospect, she attributed the giddiness to more than just the pride and enjoyment of a whole town celebrating her father. Her mother had uncovered some information from Strawberry about their father that seemed to indicate that Tom Barkley had had no knowledge of Heath's existence. Audra could sense the relief she and her brothers - and to a certain degree her mother as well – felt, given the opportunity to believe that Tom Barkley's memory was vindicated. Their hero had not knowingly abandoned a woman and his bastard son to poverty.

Audra had realized over time that such a sense of relief was mostly a self-serving illusion, though it served its purpose to help them move forward as a family. It was a pretense that all resentment and grief and guilt could now be banished. Heath himself had cooperated with that pretense, and did his best to make it real. It certainly was to his benefit to help the family feel more comfortable around him.

On that evening of celebration, as drinks and dessert were winding down, Audra noticed Heath was gone. She wanted to say goodnight to him and have him admire her new dress one more time. Guessing he'd gone to the barn, as he often did after dinner, she went looking for him.

She saw him by the far wall, sitting on a bale of hay. He was holding a worn leather-bound schoolbook of a distinctive blue-green color. He was curled forward as if in terrible pain, rocking slightly, holding the book to his chest, and sobbing, a hoarse sound of utter mourning and loss. Audra did not approach him, at a loss as to why he could be so bereft on a day of such good news. He was still so new to her. Still, she had come to love him, and she felt pain for him. She heard him start singing softly to himself, in time with his rocking, a song she'd never heard before.

 _Sometimes I feel like a motherless child_  
 _Sometimes I feel like a motherless child_  
 _A long, long way from my home_

She wondered if he'd be angry that she had seen him. She turned to leave, but then ducked down to hide as she saw someone else enter the barn.

"Mr. Heath?" It was Silas. He went quickly to sit at Heath's side. "Mr. Heath, I'm so sorry about your Aunt Rachael. So sorry."

Heath didn't answer, but continued to sing. The words were broken by his weeping, but Silas put an arm around his shoulders and sang it with him. Silas knew this song, and she wondered about that. Silas sang it for him, when Heath couldn't sing anymore.

 _Sometimes I feel like I'm almost gone_ _  
Sometimes I feel like I'm almost gone  
A long, long, long, way, way from my home_

 _Sometimes I feel like freedom is near_  
 _Sometimes I feel like freedom is so near_  
 _Closer, getting closer to my home_

 _Sometimes I feel like a motherless child_  
 _Sometimes I feel like a motherless child_  
 _A long long way from my home_


	7. Chapter 7 - The Dark Horse

Later that same day, the family all came together for a midday meal, during which Heath did his best to eat and ignore the feeling of being in a goldfish bowl. Restless and antsy about halfway through his plate, he was on the verge of excusing himself from the table. Glancing around, he found Silas watching him closely. Heath looked at him in silent appeal. Silas frowned at him and firmly shook his head. After a beat, Heath sighed, and then sat back and picked up his silverware. Silas nodded, and continued on serving the meal. For his part, John Smith did not miss the volumes of communication that passed between those two in that exchange of looks, and filed that information away for future reference.

Following lunch, an informal family meeting took place, outside on the back porch. Increasingly, over the past few weeks, Heath was finding it difficult to remain indoors for very long periods of time, especially in small or crowded spaces, and most especially when he was the topic of conversation. Outside, at least, he could move around a bit more, the open space helping him keep the trapped feeling at a distance. For all that he found what they had to say difficult at times, Heath truly didn't want to flee his family, but he was in constant struggle to manage how he was feeling, and it was visibly wearing him down.

The discussion commenced in the library, and Heath was soon pacing the walls and twisting a chamois polishing cloth into a thin rope over and over. It was again Silas who intervened, John noted.

"Mrs. Barkley, I brought some fresh fruit and lemonade out onto the veranda for you to enjoy outside. I set up some chairs for everyone if you'd like to sit a spell and look at the view," he suggested, unobtrusively shepherding the family out onto the porch where Heath could breathe a little easier and actually listen to what was being said.

John saw the grateful look Heath gave the elderly man as his mother and siblings exited the library. To his eye, though, the whole family seemed to be more at ease after the ruckus in the barn. It appeared that the dust-up had helped, at least in that it forced some truths into the open, the primary one being that Heath was still having some significant troubles returning to his usual state of health, and that a purely bull-headed strategy of ranch-work-as-usual was not going to be effective in getting him there.

The question before them all now: _Now what?_ Victoria stepped to the railing of the porch and then turned to face her assembled family. "I'm going to say this as plainly as I can. Heath, your ability not only to survive but to recover and thrive in the face of hardship is more than remarkable. I think you're doing better than any human being who had been through what you've just been through has a right to expect."

"But...?"

"But - I think it's clear we are doing you a disservice going along with a pretense that you are all "fine" now. Can we agree on that?"

Heath started to respond, swallowed, looked pained, nodded. The cloth contorted in his hands.

"I called for John to come because I was worried about you. He has work to do in the area, some things he hopes you could help him with, Heath, but truly you're the reason he's here right now."

John could see Heath's shoulders tense, his brow furrowed, his eyes searching the floor. His face and posture were broadcasting the shame he was feeling for troubling his family.

Undeterred by this, Victoria continued. "A few rules. If you are on this ranch, Heath, I expect you here for meals. Do you understand?"

Raising his eyes, he saw Silas and Audra both looking at him rather sternly. Heath knew he was outflanked. He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

She was wagging a maternal finger at him now. Increasingly uncomfortable under this exertion of matriarchal authority, Heath looked a little desperately at Nick, hoping for some sympathy. Nick merely raised his hands in a gesture of _you're-on-your-own-pal_ and grinned at him.

"Further," Victoria stated, "if you feel you're not ready yet to sleep in the house, you are expected to let us know, and you can go stay in the cabin with John. I will _not_ have you sleeping out who-knows-where by yourself, in all kinds of weather. Not now. I know you're a grown man, Heath, and you've taken care of yourself more than I like to think about, but as far as I'm concerned you're my son, and I'm going to keep a close eye on you until you're feeling better. Do I make myself clear?"

The chamois cloth unwound and then immediately commenced to twisting back into a rope, now counterclockwise. Heath forced himself to stay on the porch, forced himself to meet her eyes. "Yes'm," he said, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat, looked nervously at John. "Looks like I'm back in your custody, Marshal," he tried to joke, weakly.

"Hmm," Smith agreed, gray eyes missing nothing. "No handcuffs this time."

"Appreciate that."

* * *

The evening was warm, and the fog was building up again as Heath rode with John out to the north pasture to get the marshal settled in at the cabin there. The new barn and the paddock came into view, appearing and disappearing in the moving banks of mist.

"Looks like Audra is out in the open field there with that mare," Heath said. "At least I think I saw them down there. She wants to name her Sombra – I think because she's dark and sad, and giving her a name will help them connect."

To John, Heath sounded a bit sad and preoccupied himself. He knew the two siblings had spent some time with the mare that morning, and for a good long while just before lunch John had seen Heath sitting on the rail of the paddock fence, watching the horse, seemingly deep in thought. Heath continued, "She'd been planning to work her on a longe line when she brought her out here today - wonder how that's going."

"You saw a lot more than I did out in that field, son. All I can see now is -"

He was interrupted by the sound of a horse screaming in fear and rage. The cry was made more terrible by the strange amplification of the fog banks, which brought the sound to them with intense clarity, while utterly distorting the location or distance of the source. All the men could say was it came from somewhere off to their left, in the open field where Heath thought he had seen Audra.

The horse's scream came again, and now Heath heard something truly frightening - a wet, snarling bark, hoarse and erratic. It was the cry of an animal driven by suffering into mad violence. There was only one thing he knew of that made a dog, wolf, or coyote sound like that.

"Damn," Smith said. "Something rabid out there." He pulled out his rifle and chambered a round, and the men spurred their horses off the trail, moving as quickly as they could in the shifting fog. Out of the corner of his eye, Smith saw Heath knot Charger's reins and drop them on his neck. Keeping his eyes searching ahead for any sign of a target, Heath pulled his bow from the saddle scabbard, strung it, and nocked an arrow in what seemed to be all one continuous movement. Even in the sudden urgency of the moment, Smith marveled at how quickly in Heath's hands this new weapon had become second nature.

"Audra! Audra, are you out there?" Heath called, trying to keep the fear out his voice. He scanning the fog for any sign of her. "Audra!"

"Heath? Heath - I'm over here -"

"Are you alright? Keep calling so we can find you!"

"Heath, there's a - there's a - a rabid - something - if it's a coyote it the biggest one I've ever seen." Heath could hear the effort she was making not to panic. He kept his voice low and steady.

"We're coming, sis. Keep talking. Are you hurt?"

"The mare charged at the animal - she pulled me down pretty hard and I lost my hold on the line. I'm ok, but I don't want to move. She's - she's protecting me. When I tried to get up and run, the animal - it - it lunged at me -"

"OK, just stay still. Stay down. We're close. I can't see you yet -" Heath was wound as tight as his bowstring, eyes sweeping the gray gloom, every sense attuned to the slightest clue to lead him to his target.

Their horses were becoming more restive the closer they got to the snarls of the rabid animal. "Won't be able to get a reliable shot from horseback," Heath said, thinking out loud. He looked at the marshal beside him and made a decision.

"John, you stay mounted. You get a glimpse of Audra, you ride in fast and get her. That mare isn't going to give you a chance to get in close on foot. Right now, the way she's been, she'll attack you just as soon as that coyote." Heath swung a leg over and dropped to the ground, bow in one hand and the quiver of arrows slung on his back. He advanced on foot toward the snarling. "I'll get that animal. You get my sister."

* * *

Audra crouched on the ground, berating herself for the hundredth time for leaving her rifle back at the barn with her saddle when she walked out here with the mare. She should wear a sidearm like her brothers, she thought, or better yet, get a strap so she could carry a rifle and still keep her hands free. She was an excellent shot with a rifle. Handguns felt very unpredictable in her hands and she didn't like them much.

 _No point dwelling on that now_ , she thought, as she watched the powerful mare lunge again and again at the drooling, snarling canine, keeping herself protectively between the girl behind her and the growling threat before her.

 _This whole mess happened so fast,_ Audra thought, as she urgently searched her mind for a way to get both herself and the horse away safely. She had seen the fog moving in, and planned to quit for the day, but she was preoccupied with getting the mare settled down. Sombra had been working so well on the longe line, but then had become fearful and restless, for no apparent reason -

\- and then the reason became suddenly, horribly apparent. The drooling, crazed canine emerged out of the fog like a nightmare. The mare screamed and lunged, striking out with her hooves. Audra felt as though her arms had been yanked out if their sockets as she tried to hold on, but she hit the ground hard and lost her hold on the line, momentarily stunned and breathless. She made an attempt to get up and run, but her movement immediately drew the coyote's attack, and she fell back behind the protection of the enraged mare.

Then to her enormous relief, she heard her brother's voice. A few agonizing minutes later, she could see Marshal Smith galloping in her direction. Off to one side, Heath came into her view, running in a half-crouch, bow and arrow in hand. He was running not to her, but straight toward the rabid coyote. She readied herself, seeing the plan, and as Smith neared, she started sprinting toward him.

"Don't slow down!" she shouted. She could see he was expecting he'd need to stop and help her get on board. But this - _this_ was a trick she knew, one she and Nick had practiced for hours as children pretending to be rodeo stars.

Surprised, Smith followed Audra's lead nonetheless, and kept his pace. As he reached her, she leaped to get a grip on his saddle and vaulted up behind him, the horse never missing a step.

A safe distance away, Smith wheeled the horse around, and in an instant they saw how the battle now had shifted. Audra watched as Heath skidded to a halt to set up for his shot, kneeling and sighting down his arrow at the rabid canine. His running approach had drawn the animal's attack to him, which had been his intent, and the coyote was now accelerating in his direction, snarling like a tortured hellhound.

What Heath hadn't intended to do (though it had crossed his mind as a possibility) was to bring Sombra's protective wrath down upon himself as well. A quick glance, though, told him he had accomplished exactly that. He felt as much as heard her furious charge, but he didn't move, and he didn't look again. He kept his eyes on his target. Too far away to intervene in time, Smith and Audra watched as the big black mare came barreling down on Heath like the proverbial dark horse.


	8. Ch 8 - These Dogs Know You Now

Heath thought the wet, vicious snarling of the rabid coyote might cause him to lose his mind. The gloom, the sudden unseen lethality, the growling - Heath had just jumped off his horse and run straight into the teeth of one of his most frequent nightmares.

But his sister needed him.

Time had slowed to a crawl from the second the growling reached his ears and he understood his sister was in danger. The metallic taste of fear filled his throat. Every sound, smell, and tactile detail of the moment pressed in on him with a luxuriously painful clarity. Memories, precise, vivid, brutally exact, rose howling up out of the featureless gray haze and pursued him as he ran.

The memory of Carterson had weighed heavily upon Heath for much of his adult life. Matthew Bentell, the second commander of that prison, was a man who had orchestrated many of the experiences that tore routinely through Heath's dreams. Bentell was still just a man, however. He was a horribly flawed and angry man who had held terrible power over Heath's life, but Heath had always been able to see Bentell for what he was.

It was not, then, the memory of Bentell that could bring Heath to his knees in the night, sweating in abject terror. It was his dogs.

* * *

 _ **Carterson, 1865**_

 _Several times a day, Bentell would make his scheduled rounds in the prison yard. Each time he would allow his dogs the opportunity to hunt down and corner Heath. Bentell never allowed them more than a nip or two, hadn't let them_ ** _really_** _get their teeth in, but the enticement, the possibility - the threat - was always there._

 _Bentell now meant to make use of that special relationship he had cultivated. He had trained his dogs to have an appetite for this troublesome inmate. Bentell wanted information, but more important, Bentell wanted Heath Thomson brought to heel._

 _"Cuff his hands behind his back."_

 _Bentell shoved Heath into the dark, narrow cell. The shackles on his ankles made it impossible to keep his balance. Without his hands to protect himself, Heath did his best to tuck up and roll as he hit the ground, grunting with pain as his torn up back and shoulders took the brunt of the landing. Pushing with his feet, he was able to lean a shoulder into the dirt wall to give himself some leverage to rise and back away. Bentell advanced on him, followed closely by his three attack dogs. They were focused and eager for their daily sport._

 _Heath retreated. The walls and ceiling seemed to close in around him, the blackness of the tunnel behind reaching out to suffocate him. He couldn't get enough air in his lungs. The dim light of the cell doorway seemed to recede to an impossible distance behind the panting wet teeth of the dogs._

 _"So, Thomson. You could be out of here in short order, if you cooperate."_

 _"Cooperate, sir?" Heath croaked, his words barely audible to him over the roaring in his ears._

 _"Yes. Cooperate. Provide answers to my questions regarding the late Commander Linceul. Specifically, what information did he seek from you, and who killed him. Answer those questions to my satisfaction, and you may leave this cell immediately."_

(Leave. Go outside. I want to leave. Please let me out)

 _"Well, Thomson?"_

 _The dogs crept slightly forward. Heath retreated, his breath rapid and harsh, his eyes shifting from the dogs, to Bentell, to the door, and back to the dogs. Bentell stepped closer himself, pleased to see none of the defiance he had seen in Heath at the whipping post. He smiled slightly as Heath seemed to be trying to speak._

 _"I….he..." Heath swallowed. At the sound of his voice, one of the dogs growled._

 _"He what?" Another step forward. Heath backed up. His lips were numb, and he was acutely aware of his hands cuffed behind his back. He could barely think, as an image of canine jaws crushing his unprotected throat filled his mind. He flinched away from that thought, shaking his head, stumbling slightly on the uneven floor so that he fell further back into the tunnel. He was hemmed in on all sides, and the advancing dogs were shoulder to shoulder, filling the passageway._

(God, please, I want out, please get me out of here)

 _"Speak up, boy, or I'll lock you in here with them and let them have their fun. They don't mind the dark."_

 _Heath tried again. "Linceul didn't interrogate me about anything, sir," he managed. He looked up at Bentell, knowing this was not the answer he wanted, knowing they were just getting started._

 _"Hmm. Didn't interrogate you about anything. For all those weeks."_

 _"No, sir, he -" His eyes flickered from Bentell, to the dogs, back to Bentell. "I don't know what - what he wanted from me - he never asked me anyth -" One of the dogs growled and lunged at his foot, and Heath stumbled back another step, hitting his head on the downsloping ceiling of the passageway. He felt as if he was being herded into Hell itself. "Sir, please, I can't tell you what you want to know -"_

 _"Can't - or won't?"_

 _Heath had expected these questions from Bentell. He had thought he had a plan, some idea of how he'd handle this conversation. He groped blindly for that plan now, as the teeth and the suffocating darkness and the irons on his wrists were rendering thought almost impossible. Words fled from him._

 _"Did you kill him?" Bentell raised his voice, impatient._

 _The dogs snarled._

 _"I was - I was almost dead when he was killed. I could barely walk. I was locked up in the brig by then because he was tired of me."_

 _Bentell smiled and shook his head. He turned on his heel and walked out the door of the cell, the two guards in his wake. The dogs remained._

 _Heath's eyes widened in alarm. "Sir, wait, please don't - sir -" Heath started to move toward the door, and was brought up short as all three dogs crouched and bared their teeth in response. "Please -"_

 _Bentell spun in the doorway, a tall silhouette. "You forget, I know who and what you are, Thomson. You are a killer. You could have both feet in the grave and one arm missing, and I reckon you'd still be able to kill Linceul. I'll give you a few minutes to gather your thoughts into something more believable."_

 _He stepped back, releasing the dogs from their restraint with a command. "_ Fass _!" And then he slammed the door closed, plunging them all into blackness._

 _The alpha dog lunged._

 _Her attack was true, and her weight and momentum brought Heath to the ground, her jaws clamped at the base of his neck. His cry was muffled as the alpha deepened her hold, pressing his face into the dirt. With a guttural barking, the other dogs followed her lead. They sank their teeth into his arm, his leg, growling and ecstatic with the release from their master's restraint._

* * *

 ** _Barkley Ranch, 1874_**

Somehow keeping his voice steady, Heath called out to his sister, still hidden out in the gray.

"Audra, stay where you are. Stay down. We're close – John's riding to you."

The barking and growling continued. He felt his sanity drowning in it.

Heath was so full of terror it seemed there was no more room inside him for anything else. He had been pushed right out of his own skin. He was running outside of his own body. He sent up a crazy, desperate prayer that such an odd state of affairs wouldn't mess up his aim when the time came to kill the beast, because his sister needed him.

He heard Bentell speaking just behind him. _These dogs know you now, boy. You try to run off, they'll bring you back to me in pieces._

 _Audra needs me. Audra needs me._ The chant kept him moving forward, help him push the memories behind him, but they kept catching up.

He heard John galloping in to his left, was relieved to hear Audra call to him, run to him. She was away and safe.

Then his own target came into view.

 _Audra needs me._

He almost felt relief when he finally laid eyes on the rabid beast. The thing saw him, leaped for him, and he felt joy, because Audra was safe, and one way or another, this horror would be ending soon. But even as he sighted his arrow on the dripping teeth of his nightmare, he heard the drumming of the other danger, as Sombra rose up and turned on him.

Her charge sounded like a dirge, like the drums of war. He did not want war with this tormented horse, and he believed she did not want war with him. This horse had stood and protected his sister, and he honored her for that. But she might kill him, nonetheless, and at that moment, there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

He kept his eyes on the beast, and loosed his arrow at the proper moment, immediately nocking a second one just in case, though there was no need. The unfortunate coyote fell dead mid-stride. In the next moment, the raging horse was upon him.

* * *

As soon as they saw the horse charge at Heath, Audra smacked John on the shoulder, yelling, "Go! Go!"

There was no way they'd reach Heath in time to head the mare off, but neither John nor Audra were willing to stay put. He wheeled the horse and they took off back in Heath's direction at a gallop. Audra didn't call to Heath. She saw his intent, his focus on the rabid animal, and she knew he had seen the danger. She wouldn't do anything to distract him, not until the coyote was dead.

John had another idea. He didn't care about tormented horses anywhere near as much as he cared about that boy kneeling out there in the pasture. He was not a world class marksman capable of picking off long-distance targets from the back of a moving horse. He planned to get close and drop that horse as soon as he had a reliable shot that wouldn't put Heath at risk.

They saw the coyote die. And they heard Sombra scream as she came upon Heath and reared up over him.

* * *

As soon as he saw the coyote drop, Heath only had time to duck and cover his head before a blow like a sledge hammer slammed into his chest and sent him rolling. Laid out face down on the ground, gasping and trying to remember how to make his lungs work, Heath could feel every strike of her hooves shake the ground as she came pounding toward him.

 _Please don't kill me, girl. Please._

If he had been on his feet, if he could talk, he would've tried to use his voice and his movement to show her he was not a threat to her. He'd gentled plenty of angry horses in his life. But he was on the ground and not much able to move at the moment, and if she chose to stomp him into jelly, there wasn't going to be much he could do to stop her. His only option at this point was to play possum, and hope she noticed it was the coyote he had attacked, not her, and not Audra.

 _If you_ are _gonna kill me, girl, please make it quick. I don't think I can stand another trip to the hospital._

She reared up over him. He closed his eyes and kept still. Her hoof slammed into the ground an inch from his head, and he had to bite back a sound of fear. She reared up again, screaming at him. Again and again she struck the ground, inches away, the impact spraying gravel in his face and shaking the ground below him.

Heath could hear Smith's horse approaching fast, and Audra calling as they got close. Heath reckoned Smith was giving Audra a chance, but if the horse didn't turn to her voice, Smith would put the horse down with his rifle as soon as they were in close range.

"Sombra – it's OK, Sombra, I'm here, it's OK –"

Hearing Audra's voice, the horse stopped. She stood over Heath, blowing and agitated, but no longer striking. Heart pounding, Heath kept his face to the ground, remaining still, not wanting to provoke the mare. She was not calm, not yet. She dropped her head and Heath felt her soft nose and warm breath on the back of his neck. She nudged him, hard, then she snorted and took a few steps back away from him.

He heard Smith dismount and ratchet his rifle. He heard cautious footsteps.

"Heath."

"Yeah," he grunted, not moving.

"You OK?"

"Yeah."

"Gonna see if Audra can walk her off. She makes a fuss, though, I'm putting her down." He nodded to Audra.

"C'mon girl. We're OK. The coyote is dead. We're safe." The horse allowed Audra to take her lead line and walk her a ways off toward the barn.

John hurried to Heath's side, helped him roll over and sit up.

Heath yelped with the movement, then leaned forward, wincing. "Jeez, that hurts," he groaned, holding his side. "That horse is crazy, but she's got some power. Wow."

"She get you anywhere else?"

"No. Don't think I'd be here talking to you if she did. Once was enough." He looked around. The coyote lay with an arrow protruding from its mouth, the shaft buried in its skull. Heath shuddered, as a vivid image of Bentell's dogs stalking out of the fog intruded into his thoughts.

"What is it?"

"I'll take a mad horse over a mad dog any day." He winced again, rubbing his side. Took another glance at the coyote. "Damn. _Dogs_. It figures. Can't imagine I'll be sleeping so good tonight."

"Guess we'll see," John said. "Hell of a shot, by the way."

He nodded. "Did the trick. Hey, Audra!"

She was watching her brother from a distance. She still didn't entirely trust this Marshal Smith to keep her brother in one piece. He always seemed to be getting hurt when they were together. "Yes, Heath? Are you OK?"

"Bring that horse over here. I need to have a few words with her."

Smith looked at him surprised. "You sure?"

"Pretty sure. Help me up."

Heath stood and waited, letting Audra and the horse come to him.

Sombra stopped a few feet away, snorting and tense, but her ears were forward and watching him. She was at least 16 hands and muscular, now that she had been fed up and exercised properly under Audra's care. She had a thin white blaze down her face, but otherwise she was all black, and really quite beautiful, even with the scars over her body. Heath hadn't yet thought through what those scars were from - he needed to gain her trust first so he could look her over up close.

He held out a hand. "Hey girl. Just wanted to thank you for protecting my sister. And not stomping me into pieces."

She stretched out her neck and whuffed at the air a few inches from his hand. He didn't move. She reached a little further, making the lightest contact with her nose, then pulled back and shook her head.

Heath smiled and put his hand down. "Nice to meet you too."


	9. Chapter 9 - Exile

_Three temptations he met on those dark dunes that lay gray and dismal before the wonder-eyes of the child: the temptation of Hate, that stood out against the red dawn; the temptation of Despair, that darkened noonday; and the temptation of Doubt, that ever steals along with twilight._

 _"The Souls of Black Folk"_

 _W.E.B Du Bois_

 _Two together!_

 _Winds blow South, or winds blow North,_

 _Day come white, or night come black,_

 _Home, or rivers and mountains from home,_

 _Singing all time, minding no time,_

 _While we two keep together._

 _Walt Whitman_

 _"The Brown Bird"_

The fog was a shifting, unpredictable presence that early evening, the banks of cloud moving, joining, and separating again like a herd of cattle on the move. Leaning on the paddock rail, Heath had a clear view of Audra riding her dappled gelding back to the house in the distance. The pasture where lay the dead coyote was shrouded still in gray. Heath decided to keep his eyes elsewhere. Echoes of the fear he had felt kept rolling through him in waves, and those mutable walls of cloud became a willing medium, giving substance and movement to the beasts that were in his head.

Over and over again, he would startle, heart pounding, sure he had seen something leap out of the mist. This jumpy hypervigilance had been going on for weeks, to the point that Heath had stopped wearing his sidearm for fear he'd draw on someone or something that had the bad luck to catch him by surprise. That rabid coyote, though, had cranked it up to an almost hallucinatory intensity. Struggling to settle himself, over and over again, he would force his attention back to the paddock, where Sombra and Nike mingled amicably with several other horses he'd brought up to train. Watching them in their equine sociability was calming - until the next wave broke over him.

 _This can't go on forever. It'll get better. It's always gotten better before. Was never quite this bad, but just wait it out, it'll get better. Just focus on the horses. This won't go on forever._

 _(These dogs know you now, boy. You try to run off again, they'll bring you back to me in pieces.)_

Heath groaned under his breath as his heart started racing again. He put his head down on his arms and tried to get his body and brain to relax. Truth be told, one big reason he was standing there at the paddock fence was because he was scared to move. He was paralyzed by the rapid-fire false alarms ricocheting around his mind. He took some slow, deep breaths.

He wondered how the hell he was going to be able to sit through supper tonight at the house. He wanted to. He wanted to be _able_ to. And then he wanted to change the subject, because this train of thought always led him to Thanksgiving. Rivka was coming for Thanksgiving, and that thought filled him with longing and dread.

 _Rivka knows all about the dogs. I wouldn't have to explain all that._

 _Rivka, I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. You were away for four years and I missed you. I lived my life, and thought of you, I sent you my love, I gave you my heart, and I waited for you to come back._

 _But now, darlin', I can't breathe. I feel like I'm dying without you, but that's wrong. It's not true. The fact is I'm just dying, all on my own. I'm drowning. It's got nothing to do with you. How do I keep myself from hanging onto you just to keep my head above water? Dragging you down, the way drowning men do?_

 _You are so brave, doing what you're doing. The world will fight you being a doctor, will fight your women's hospital, and fight your clinic for all the poor and immigrant families in the city. I know this. It will never be easy for you. I want to be able to stand at your side. I feel so useless._

Blinking back tears, he forced his attention back to the horses, back to his refrain, desperately. _It'll get better_. _Just wait, it'll_ _get better_. The anxiety, the lack of sleep and food, these things made him distractible, weak, angry, and irritable. But it was the exile to which all this had banished him that was threatening him with despair. He was in prison no longer, but he might as well be. Why couldn't he just shake this off?

Stepping out onto the small porch of the cabin, John looked out at Heath by the paddock fence. Even at a distance, he could see the tension in his body, the fatigue, and the sadness, as Heath laid his forehead down on his arms.

 _He's not locked up in a Nevada prison anymore, but he may as well be, for how he's feeling,_ John thought, unknowingly echoing Heath. _He's not home yet, not by a long shot._

John was struggling with his own feeling of responsibility for what Heath had been through. He had arrested him as a fugitive murder suspect, and following the Judge's orders, had delivered him to the sandstone fortress that was the Nevada State Prison. He had had cause to worry for Heath's safety, as he suspected the prison's XO was an accomplice to Risley's crimes, but he never expected the swift and brazen brutality with which that XO and his guard officers had attacked. Before Heath's first full day in the prison was up, Smith had pleaded for and received a court order to move him to another location, but it was already too late. Smith carried Heath out of the prison in his arms, barely alive.

 _Seems he keeps trusting me, and seems he keeps getting run over, again and again. He still trusts me. Victoria is counting on me to help. What can I do for him now to help him recover?_

John thought back to the night he and Frank Sawyer had spent chasing after Heath, catching up to him only after he'd given himself up to Attorney General Buckner. Heath had been two days with no food or sleep in the foothills, running for his life while it seemed every able-bodied male in Carson City was looking to hang him. He'd escaped from a mob that tried to beat him to death in a railyard, and from a sadistic bounty hunter bent on revenge, who threatened to cut off his arm. John had met up with Frank, Jarrod, and Nick. The four men tracked Heath all night, each of them terrified that bounty hunters would get to him first – and equally worried that Heath was out of his mind and might in fact be on his way to kill the Attorney General.

 _I wasn't there when that mob ambushed my deputy and took Heath. I was in Sacramento. Could I have done something? Could I have prevented it? Would I have suspected the trap?_

When they finally caught up with him, Heath had broken into Buckner's home, and had surrendered himself to the Attorney General. They found Heath on his knees before they barrel of the AG's shotgun. He had no fight left. He hadn't convinced Buckner not to indict him for murder. He had pushed himself as far as he could. Now Heath was waiting only for execution, hoping at best he would be in the hands of professionals, and it would be cleanly done.

As his brothers rushed to lay hands on him, to lay him down and check his injuries, still, Heath fought them, briefly, not knowing at first who they were. Fear changed quickly to relief, and he gave himself up to their care.

The four of them watched over Heath through the night. The nightmares were frequent and terrible. A few hours before dawn, John was dozing at the bedside in Buckner's guest room. Heath began to toss and moan again. John came awake immediately and hurried to him, but not before Heath had rolled himself to the floor and was trying desperately to crawl away.

John knelt beside him, trying to restrain him gently, calling his name, but Heath pushed him away in a panic. "Dogs, they're – they're all dogs, all of them, all of them – I can hear them, hunting me – hunting -"

 _Dogs_? John puzzled over that. He'd heard that Rivka and Mike had said something about dogs, that Bentell had used dogs, but no one in the family seem to know anything more about it.

Heath was trying to cover his ears. "Growling, I can hear them - God, it doesn't stop, they're all growling at me –"

Frank appeared in the doorway and hurried over to help. "Heath, wake up. You're safe." The two men had to restrain him more forcefully, as Heath became increasingly frantic in his efforts to escape.

Heath fought to get loose. He stared desperately into the darkness of the room. "I can't see, I – I can't see – please – why can't I -"

"Frank, I got him, I think. Turn up that gas lamp? Maybe some light - so he can see us – maybe it'll help him calm down."

But finally John had to grab both of his arms and pin him to the floor with his weight, all the while speaking to him. "Heath, son, you're safe. Settle down, don't fight me, I don't want to hurt you."

Heath began to weaken. He was winded, coughing, his voice hoarse and distant.

"- hate me, why – why do they hate me -?" There was a terrible helplessness in his words that John thought might break his heart. He felt on the verge of tears himself.

They continued to hold him and speak to him until Heath woke fully and recognized the two marshals. He was able to settle back in bed then, not meeting their eyes, with a mumbled thank you that to John looked and sounded more like an apology than anything else.

Throughout all this, Frank carried himself with a calm, casual professionalism, but John knew him pretty well, and he could see the protective rage simmering behind his eyes. John suspected there'd be no safe haven for any of the men that did this to Heath, if they happened to dodge the court system. Thinking on that mission would be Frank's way of coping with these horrible events.

 _And how am I coping with it? I can't look at this boy without seeing my own son, my Joseph, buried ten years ago now in the military cemetery in Sacramento. Joseph was thousands of miles away from me when he fell in battle in Tennessee. When he hugged me, and I watched him board the train to go join his regiment, I knew he would be out of my reach. I could no longer pick him up and dust him off as I did when he was a child, or watch his back as I did the few years he decided to ride as my deputy. He was torn away from me, thousands of miles away, by anonymous cannon fire, and the only comfort I could find was that his mother wasn't alive to see it. I told myself that Caroline was there with our boy when he died. I couldn't bear to think he was alone._

 _Heath isn't thousands of miles away, though I imagine he feels like he is. I can't change what's happened, but I can let him know he's not alone._

 _That's a place to start, but it's not enough. Even knowing he's loved isn't enough, really._

 _I remember Frank telling me about how they met and started working together. How hungry that 17 year old had been to be of service, to work at something with more meaning than just putting bread in his mouth. Now here he is, once again, fighting to get back to himself, but now I can see him wondering if he's even worth the struggle._

 _That's the danger. Him doubting if he's worth it._

 _I can second-guess myself all day long, and lord knows I think I've made some mistakes, but dwelling on that isn't going to do this boy any good. I can stay by him while he's climbing up out of that pit. But he needs help remembering what it is he's climbing for._

John had a few thoughts about how to do that. Audra also had some ideas of her own on this subject, some very good ideas, in fact.

But first things first. John was pretty sure he needed to pry Heath away from that fence and help him box up what had happened here this afternoon. He didn't know what all the history was with the dogs, but he did know that what was out there right now was just a dead, sick coyote that needed to be buried away from scavengers. He reckoned Heath knew that too, but he might need some reminding.

John hefted the shovel he held in his hand and stepped off the porch.

"Heath," he called, from a distance, so as not startle him.

After a beat, he could see Heath wipe his eyes and scrub his face with his hands. Then he turned around and stuck his hands in his pockets, and watched John approach. He raised his eyebrows at the shovel.

"Think you can steer us back to where that dead coyote is? I'm thinking you have a compass in your head to go with the clock."

Heath's eyes tightened, and he glanced toward the pasture, then quickly away.

"C'mon. You can help me bury the poor sick thing. Keep me company at least. I reckon I'll do most of the digging, though, seeing as you got kicked by a very angry horse. Most important thing is you can help me get back to this cabin without getting lost."

Heath swallowed, looked anxiously out at the pasture again, then looked at John for a long moment, knowing what he was trying to do. Heath took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, OK, sure. Can't just stand at that corral fence for the rest of the day, I guess."

"Looks like you're feeling pretty jacked up still."

Heath shook his head and laughed mirthlessly as they started walking. "You ain't foolin'. Right now everything around me seems to have teeth."

"Well, let's go get the one thing out here that _does_ have teeth and put him in the ground."


	10. Chapter 10 - Pine Cones and Dead Dogs

_What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow_

 _Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,_

 _You cannot say, or guess, for you know only_

 _A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,_

 _And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,_

 _And the dry stone no sound of water. Only_

 _There is shadow under this red rock,(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),_

 _And I will show you something different from either_

 _Your shadow at morning striding behind you_

 _Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;_

 _I will show you fear in a handful of dust_

 _T. S. Eliot_

 _"The Wasteland"_

 _vvvvvvvvvvvvvvv_

 _The hot, dry wind howled. There was no sun, or shade, nor any clear demarcation between ground and sky. There was only oppressive, inescapable heat; the hissing lashing wind; the thick, suffocating, ungenerous air._

 _Through the night and into the day he had been digging, one ditch after another, one shovelful after another, painfully scraped from the rocky Nevada soil. The wind and dust encircled him, turning the world around him into a blurred, fluid canvas upon which his mind could paint any scene it chose._

 _"Barkley. Who told you to put this ditch here?"_

 _He closed his eyes, waiting. The rod was a vivid black line against the flat gray sky, where it paused, then slashed down. He made no sound, but staggered and dropped to his knees, holding on to his shovel with a white-knuckled grip._

 _"You put it in the wrong place again, mutt, you'll be feeling that stick from now until sundown."_

 _"Where –"_

 _The arm rose to strike again._

"Heath."

There was a hand on his shoulder. Heath startled away, his whole body tensing, bracing for the rod to come whistling down.

"Heath, you're OK, son. Hand me that shovel. Looks like you found the spot."

Heath looked down at the shovel in his hand, and then at the indistinct form on the ground ahead. He relaxed his grip with an effort, as right behind the fear came a wave of anger and frustration. If he were capable of it, in that moment, he would have snapped the shovel in half.

"Heath. Only pine cones."

Heath looked up, surprised out of his brooding train of thought.

"Or in this case," John said, "only a sickly, dead dog. You recognize this hound?"

Heath resolutely reminded himself where he was and what they were doing, and forced himself to step forward and look at the dead animal. The still form gradually came clear as he approached.

"That's not a coyote," Heath said, now looking more closely. "That's one of Jake Zimmer's dogs that he uses to herd his sheep. Sure seemed too big to be a coyote." Heath squatted down, looking at the tormented expression on the dog's face even in death. "What a terrible way to die. That's too bad. I'll have to tell Jake. I'm sure he suspects something's wrong, dog's been gone for a few days."

Heath wondered at how quickly his feeling of horror had shifted to something more like sympathy, though there was another bothersome feeling mixed in as he looked into the dead dog's sickness-crazed eyes. It was a feeling of recognition. Heath chose not to give voice to that rasping, dragging thought.

"Alright, let's bury the poor mutt," John said, not unkindly. Heath flinched slightly at his choice of words.

"Uh - yeah, let's," he responded, after a moment. _Terrible way to die._

"Heath."

"Yeah?"

"Unless you really _want_ to do the digging yourself, I'd suggest you let go the death grip you have on that shovel and hand it to me."

Heath looked down at his white-knuckled hands. _Pine cones and dead dogs_. He met John's eyes. He could see the respect and care, his slight smile an invitation for Heath to lighten up on himself, just a little bit. He nodded and handed John the shovel, wiping his damp palms on the front of his shirt.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

 _"For to him that is joined to the living there is hope; for a living dog is better than a dead lion."_

 _Ecclesiastes 9_

"Nike, pretty girl, how'd you like to stretch your legs a little bit, kick up some dust?" Heath had already groomed and tacked up the marshal's horse while John was in the cabin getting cleaned up for supper. Heath had too much nervous energy anticipating sitting through the meal, so he kept busy out with the horses.

He had slipped a halter and a single lead line on the chestnut quarter horse when he brought her to the rail to brush her down, but she was looking a little antsy, and he couldn't resist. She was just so much fun to ride.

He climbed up on her bareback and started her along the corral fence, first one way, then the other, working up to an easy canter just to warm up. Sombra and the other horses meandered calmly about the paddock. Nike responded so beautifully to his knees, to how he shifted his weight. He really felt they could weave their way through anything without even the lead line for steering. They picked up the pace, sprinting, circling, and banking around the other horses in what became a rowdy game of horse tag, with Heath and Nike charging at full tilt around the corral and the rest of the horses chasing after.

John walked down from the cabin, thoroughly enjoying both the display of horsemanship and the pure fun being had by both human and horses. As he watched, Heath brought the chase to a close, but then guided Nike around Sombra. He would circle her, come close, and then swerve away. He tried cutting her like he would a steer – something at which Nike was quite talented – dancing and dodging playfully in front of the big black mare as she tried to move around the smaller quarter horse. Sombra was seeming to enjoy the game, snorting and lifting her tail, and mirroring many of Nike's movements. Heath rode up alongside the mare a few times and would reach out to pat her neck, and stroke her back or face. Gradually, she stopped shying away at the movement of his hand, and allowed him to keep that contact with her.

Finally, the horses seemed to be done with playtime, and were ready for a drink and a rest. Heath rode Nike close by Sombra's side, keeping one hand on the big mare's withers, and they walked that way together over to the trough. As they drank, he sat easy for a while on Nike, looking at the scars and other marks over Sombra's back and sides, wondering.

John walked over to the trough. "That looked like fun. But you are a dusty mess now."

Heath agreed. He felt like he'd at least have a chance at sitting still through an entire meal now. "It was. And I am. And I know I can't use that as an excuse to skip dinner. I'll be cleaned up in time, particularly when I've got this speed-loving horse to ride me back to the house."

"Seems the trouble horse is getting comfortable with you."

"Yeah, little bit." He gazed at her, thoughtfully. "I want to find out what her story is."

"I'm a little curious myself. Listen, while we're riding back to the house, I want to tell you about what I'm working on, 'cause I'm hoping you'll be willing to help me out. And no," he added, as Heath looked suspiciously at him, "it's not just an excuse to keep you on a short leash. I'd want to ask you regardless – though I guess you could argue I'm taking advantage of your convalescent state –"

" _Convalescent_?"

"Yeah. It means –"

"I know what it _means_ , John." He swung a leg over and slid to the ground. "Guess I shouldn't be too offended. Artemis, that uppity nine-year-old, she called me an invalid. She's much cuter than you though. I was more inclined to let her get away with it."


	11. Chapter 11 - Children, Don't Get Weary

_But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit what I shall soon cease to be - a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others and intolerable to myself._

 _Mary Shelley_

 _"Frankenstein"_

* * *

 _I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair._

 _Alfred Lord Tennyson_

* * *

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Jarrod strolled out of the barn, arm-in-arm with his sister and happy to be home from the city. He was listening intently to her account of events that afternoon. He stopped and turned Audra to face him, his hands gentle on her shoulders, looking her over once again for any signs of injury. The smear of dirt along her leg and torso gave him an idea of how she had fallen, and then been dragged by the lunging horse. "The horse pulled you down? Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, Jarrod. She settled down as soon as the coyote was dead –"

"Well,that's not _exactly_ true," Heath interjected, pulling Nike up close at hand and stepping down to greet his brother. "Welcome home, Jarrod," he said warmly, embracing him. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you, Heath," Jarrod said. "Really good." It amazed him at times, his brother's capacity to see outside himself, sometimes to a fault. That Heath's spirit was shrouded and in pain was clear on first glance, at least to Jarrod. Yet what Heath offered without reserve was his genuine affection and care for his big brother who had been away.

Jarrod paused, pulling back to look intently at Heath as though he wanted to say more. Strong, shifting emotions moved behind his eyes; concern, relief, fear, confusion. Heath met his gaze, feeling a little worried at his brother's expression.

"Jarrod? What is it?"

"Oh, it's – it's nothing, really," Jarrod tried to reassure. "It's just that – well - this whole time I've been in San Francisco, off and on, I would suddenly be worried about you. I'd suddenly feel as if we had come back from Nevada without you. I'd have to remind myself that you were home. I kept wanting to come and see for myself that you were here." He shook his head, laughing at himself. "So here you are – obviously - I can see that for myself – so it must be left over nerves from a summer of trying to get you home, right?" He gave Heath a brotherly pat on the shoulder, but his eyes were still preoccupied.

"Yep, I'm here." Jarrod's intense demeanor was making Heath a little uncomfortable. "I sure hope you didn't spend all your time worrying about me, Jarrod. Nick was so full of brotherly concern he decided to whup me in the barn this morning. You ain't plannin' on that, are you?"

Jarrod laughed. "No, no, that's not my style. Heard all about it, though." He was still scrutinizing Heath, but now he deliberately kept his tone more casual. "I bring you letters from Rivka, and I am instructed to inform you that you must limit your flower deliveries to once or twice per week, because she has no more space for vases in her apartment, the truth of which I have validated with my own eyes. Her rooms look like one giant bouquet." Heath smiled and blushed a little. "Now. I am also hearing a story about a rabid coyote and a crazed horse, who, I understand, kicked you a good fifteen feet across the pasture. Anything broken?"

Heath laughed a bit sheepishly. "No. Just a horseshoe tattoo on my ribs for good luck. Couldn't hardly get out of her way at the time. Kinda had my hands full. We're starting to make friends, though. And it wasn't a coyote, turns out. It was one of Zimmer's shepherds. I'm gonna have to let him know. John and I buried it out there."

Heath was looked at the ground at that point, hiding his face, keeping his voice impassive. The surging panic he had been feeling had eased considerably, but it was still an audible rumble in the background. The concrete act of burying the sick dog had helped deflect the demon-dogs of his dreams, but it had raised instead the rasping specter of his own madness. He truly didn't want to delve back into those events right then if he could possibly avoid it.

Jarrod was watching Heath closely. He'd become much attuned to the various ways Heath would mask or otherwise control his feelings. Jarrod also had not forgotten the brief hint he had been given of Heath's experiences with Bentell's dogs, experiences he had not shared with his present family, but that Rivka and Mike had witnessed in Carterson. This bit of history had come to Jarrod's mind immediately the moment he heard about the rabid animal they had faced that afternoon.

Audra seemed to sense Heath's discomfiture as well, and she chose to change the subject. "Heath, Jarrod says he learned a few things about Sombra when he came through town today."

Heath's head came up, now curious. "Really? What did you hear?"

Jarrod noticed that deflection as well, but considered that perhaps it was best to let it go for now. "Well, I ran into Jameson, the auctioneer, who handled the sale when Audra bought the mare. I asked him who had brought her to the fair and put her in that pulling contest. You remember, that was –"

Jarrod broke off as Smith walked over to join them, and reached out to shake hands with the marshal. "John! How are you? Word in the city is that you've been tasked with tripling the number of marshals serving the federal districts and courts of the State of California. I'm happy to see you're starting such a big project here in our neighborhood."

"Yup, that about sums it up. Though it's not just California. The whole 9th District is growing fast, and the legal demands along with it, but yes, California is the lion's share of the work right now. I've been talking to Heath about it - I can fill you in after dinner. I'm hoping I can borrow him from time to time. But first - I've also become curious about this horse - what did you learn?"

"Right. So, Jameson tells me he bought the mare off a pretty rough bunch of men. They're local, Jameson calls them thugs, always working odd jobs, petty scams, and drifting around the area. They told Jameson they'd heard something about the horse being injured in some sort of accident up in the mountains. She was auctioned, and bought to be used as a draft horse, but the wagon drivers couldn't get her to work, because of her behavior. So she was sold off to this rough bunch for a few dollars. They brought her to the fair to see if they could win some money in the pulling contests. Jameson said they figured even though the drivers couldn't get actual work out of her,they'dbe able to get her at least to pull in a straight line, that is, if they beat her hard enough."

"That sounds awful," John said.

"They weren't having much luck with that strategy - they were just torturing the horse by the end. Jameson had to put a stop to it, he said, so he gave them probably triple what they paid for her to take her off their hands."

"That's when I found her," Audra said. "The poor thing."

"She's a lucky thing, you ask me," said Heath. "You found her. She has you now." Audra smiled at him. He had to smile back. She just had that effect on him. "Got her to play tag with me and Nike today. I think she had fun."

"And did _you_ have fun?" Audra moved to his side and gave him a hug. He winced.

"Ouch. Yes, I did," he said, as he hugged her back.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Heath, I'll try not to squeeze you too hard."

"Thanks, sis, I appreciate that. Where are the men now, did Jameson say?"

"He said they're camped these days south of Stockton, near the river. He doesn't trust them a bit, says he wishes they'd just move on. Why?"

"Thinkin' I'd like to ask them a few questions. See if I can find out where she came from."

"How about you and I ride into town tomorrow, Heath?" John suggested. "There's a couple of men I've arranged to interview as possible deputies. I'd surely like to have your eyes and ears come along. And it doesn't sound to me like this bunch of rustlers are guys you want to go see alone. Even just to ask a few questions."

"Sounds like you two have your work cut out for you tomorrow," Victoria said, joining the group. "Jarrod, darling, how was your trip?"

He hugged her and kissed her cheek. "Very productive, lovely lady, though not terribly interesting. Far more excitement here, it seems. I am thrilled to be home."

"Dinner is ready, and I am thrilled to have _everyone_ home together." She slipped her arm around John's waist and looked up at him. "And after all the excitement, John, did Heath get you settled out there at the cabin?"

"Yes, ma'am, he did." He smiled down at her, holding her gaze for a long moment, thinking of her, thinking of the cabin. He took a slow breath in, enjoying her subtle perfume. He offered her his arm. "May I, Victoria?"

"Yes, you may, John." They walked to the house, the tall windows glowing warm and inviting in the dusk. John inclined his head toward her, laughing softly over something she said.

Behind them, Heath and Jarrod made eye contact and smiled. Jarrod wondered at himself. He would have thought, as the eldest son - and surrogate father these past years - he would feel protective and even jealous if his mother welcomed another man into her life. Yet from the first, when he witnessed the immediate and unguarded admiration Smith felt for Victoria, Jarrod had been nothing but pleased. Perhaps it was because he'd already had time to form his own relationship with Smith, and to know him as a kind, intelligent, and honorable man. Smith's obvious adoration of Victoria, and her obvious pleasure in his company, seemed even to have won over Nick, who had been known to scare off quite a few suitors to the Barkley women over the years.

It was Audra, strangely, who seemed to be most reserved in her acceptance of Smith's suit for her mother's heart, and Jarrod wondered about that. Her confrontation of him was tempered by the affection she knew existed between Smith and her siblings and mother, but still, it was exacting, and let Smith know clearly she was taking his measure. Perhaps it was in part her youth that caused her to want to test and challenge Smith in his worthiness to become part of the family. She was not a child, but neither was she fully an adult. If his hope was fulfilled, Smith would become not just her mother's husband, but Audra's stepfather, and clearly he was a man who would take such a role seriously. Audra and he would have to come to terms, one way or another.

Jarrod smiled to himself, shaking his head. He was remembering the look on Smith's face the night he first laid eyes in Audra. She had leapt from her horse and marched right up to Smith with a rifle in her hand, demanding to know who had hurt Heath and what the marshal was going to do about it. Smith had seen those furious blue eyes and recognized her immediately as Heath's sister. Jarrod was pretty sure Smith appreciated Audra for the remarkable woman she was in her own right, and while he expected there would be some jousting in their future, he felt confident that relationship would be just fine in the long run.

* * *

Dinner was underway as soon as Nick came blustering in from the field and had gotten cleaned up enough to be allowed at the table. Thinking about the "discussion" his brothers had had that morning, Jarrod watched carefully to see if any new tensions would arise. To his amazement, Nick offered no complaints about the amount of work in the new orchard, or any recriminations about Heath's absence. He instead thanked Heath for fixing up the branding irons so well. Jarrod could clearly see maintaining this attitude was a huge effort for Nick. Heath, however, seemed not to realize this. He tried instead to match Nick's contented demeanor, but he was suffering terribly just being in Nick's presence, his brother now the embodiment of the work from which Heath had been exiled.

If Nick had complained or criticized, it would have been illogical, of course, as he himself had insisted Heath back off from the heavier labor until he was stronger, but it would have at least accorded with Heath's own criticism of himself. Nick's silence and apparent equanimity on the matter was a different kind of torment. Heath feared being useless more than death itself, Jarrod suspected. He could see the wheels turning in Heath's head, as he wondered if it was really so easy for Nick to move on without him.

Heath did his best to eat a decent meal. He appeared calmer than he had at lunch – sprinting around on Nike had helped blow off some steam – but it remained a moment-by-moment effort. Silas stayed nearby, at one point pausing by his chair to give his shoulder a squeeze and murmur something in Heath's ear that made him smile and relax ever so slightly. After the meal had ended, though, and the family was gathering in the library, Heath approached Victoria where she and John stood by the French doors.

"Mother, I'm just going to step outside for a while – if you don't mind – I'm not running off anywhere, I promise." He hoped he looked and sounded better than he felt. She nodded and stroked his arm once, gently.

"Thank you for telling me, Heath. I hope you know – my wanting you here for meals, wanting you to tell me where you are – it's not to punish you, or imply that I don't respect your decisions. I just –"

"I understand, Mother. I do. I'm not saying it's easy to take, but – when I'm thinking straight – I think I'd probably do the same in your place."

John and Victoria watched him step out onto the veranda and disappear from sight. She sighed and leaned back into John's arms. "Oh, John, I worry for him."

"Me too – but like Audra said, he's got a good sense of direction. I figure my first job is to police him a bit on the food and sleep, and help him settle down so he doesn't feel he's losing his mind. I hope I can help him start to feel safe in his own skin again. But I need to help him remember why _he's_ worth the struggle.

"I can seriously use his experience building the kind of federal law enforcement service this state needs – he knows the terrain, he knows the towns, the businesses, knows how to _read_ people. He'd be a huge help to me, without having to lift feedbags or pull stumps all day, which might ease his feeling of being an invalid, though I know what he wants right now is to work this ranch. But - I think Audra's idea is the best, honestly - asking Heath to help with that horse. That was brilliant."

They stepped outside onto the balcony. John admired the vision of her walking ahead of him. She wore a full-skirted silk dress of deep blue that clung so perfectly to every curve of her torso it was making him jealous, wishing he could lay so close to her skin. Victoria stepped to the wrought iron railing, feeling her worries ease slightly with John's words. The warm scent of soil blessed with rainfall carried to them on a fitful breeze. She felt John's hands at her waist, gently moving up over her arms to caress her shoulders and her hair where it rested on her neck. She turned into his embrace with a smile, and lifted her face to kiss him. "You're giving me chills," she murmured against his lips.

"Mmm. Good," was all he said, as he kissed her mouth and let his hands begin to learn the lovely shape of her.

* * *

Jarrod moved to the fireplace with a drink in his hand and observed as Audra soundly beat Nick at checkers.

"Nick, you're just not concentrating at all! Where is your mind?"

"I'm sorry, Audra." Nick looked distracted, his eyes on the French doors where Heath had made his exit.

"I think I know where his mind is, Audra," Jarrod said gently. Of all of his family members, in some ways, Jarrod thought Heath's difficulties were hardest on Nick. He knew Nick was bereft without Heath at his side, was constantly fearful for his well-being, was wracked with guilt for the catastrophe Heath had suffered in order to protect him - and was completely at a loss how to express any of those feelings.

"Nick." Jarrod waited until Nick looked up at him. "It'll be OK. Heath knows you love him - and need him, which I think he values just as much. I don't know that there's anything you can do or say right now that'll be "right". It's hard for him to look at you precisely because you're what he wants to get back to so badly."

Nick stood and scowled his frustration at the fireplace. "You really think riding around with Smith is going to help? Or gentling that crazy mare? Last thing he needs is to get hurt again."

"This from the guy who tackled the boy and nearly dislocated his _other_ shoulder pinning him to the barn floor this morning."

Audra started to laugh. "Well, don't put all the blame on poor old Nick. Like Heath said, Nick's the one with the fat lip."

"Alright, that's enough guff out of you, Miss Barkley," Nick growled, but with a hint of a smile as he rubbed his jaw. "That punch was just a conversation starter."

* * *

Outside, Heath breathed in the night air, welcoming the quiet of the pastures that surrounded the house. He could see how much his family was suffering because of him. How did this _happen_ , that he had become such a burden to the people he loved? He rested his hand against his chest, where he had tucked Rivka's letters. He was almost afraid to read them. He wanted to ride to her, but if he was such a weight on his family here, how much more would he be a burden for her there?

He felt truly like a busted up mess, a broken pot no good to hold anything for anyone. Just pieces for the people he loved to cut their fingers on. Best just to leave it alone. Sweep it away.

He paced along the veranda, knowing he was dragging himself down with this kind of thinking, but feeling too tired out to stop himself. He thought of his friend Cho, the elderly man who had done so much to help him. Cho mixed his herbal remedies in a ceramic pot that had been shattered at some point in its past. Cho had lovingly rejoined the fragments, using a lacquer mixed with gold, transforming the brokenness into something beautiful, glittering, and unique. Heath had asked him about it. Cho's response had gone deep in his heart. The understanding of it was waiting inside him like a sparkling stone tumbling in a river, a promise of peace, if he could get there, if he could just see it clear and hold it in his hand. But it kept slipping out of sight.

 _"The injury cannot be undone._ Kintsugi _accepts this, and honors the brokenness as part of the pot's history. The broken pot is not something to discard, but is repaired with compassion. It becomes more precious than it was before, stronger in the places it's been broken. The broken becomes beautiful."_

"Mr. Heath?"

Heath jumped slightly, startled out of the memory. He exhaled slowly, settling himself. "Silas. I didn't hear you come out. Thank you for dinner." Heath had wandered, as was his habit, to the porch at the back of the house, by the kitchen door. This was Silas' area, the "servant's entrance", truth be told, and Heath often felt safer and more at ease here than anywhere else in the house. He smiled gently at the old man. "You got anything I can help you with? I think moving some supplies out of the root cellar, or peeling a pile of potatoes, or cleaning some pots would do a lot to ease my spirits this evening. Heck, I'll even pluck a few chickens if that needs doing."

"You look like your spirit needs some easin', that's for certain. And I've got just the barrel of apples to help you with that. We're gonna make a whole mess of applesauce, and maybe a few pies too."

The two men sat and peeled and cored apples on the porch for some time, pointing out shooting stars and singing old songs, and Heath felt more peaceful than he had all day. Silas began another tune, slow and gentle.

 _Children don't get weary,_

 _No, no, don't you get weary_

 _Children, don't get weary_

 _'Till your work is done_

Heath sighed, smiling. "That was one Hannah would always sing at the end of the day. I think it helped her get through that last bit of piece work before she could finally turn in."

"You goin' up to see her soon?"

"Yeah, I gotta get up there next few weeks. I've been telling her to come down to the valley to stay with us, at least during the winters. Gets rough up there in the winter." He frowned into the dark, picturing her.

"She stubborn."

"You got that right. Boy howdy, is she ever."

Silas stopped peeling for a moment and rested his hands in his lap. He turned to look at the young man beside him. "I can see you tired near to death, Heath. I've seen that place. You got a steep path to climb, but you know the way, better than most." Heath looked at him, his throat suddenly tight. He did not pretend to misunderstand what Silas was saying. "You gotta walk it, but you ain't alone on the trail. You're a good man, Heath, and you're worth the climbin'. So don't you get weary."


	12. Chapter 12 - A Hall of Mirrors

_For an instant I dared to shake off my chains and look around me with a free and lofty spirit, but the iron had eaten into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into my miserable self._

 _Mary Shelley_  
 _"Frankenstein"_

 _He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.  
_

 _Aeschylus_  
 _"Agamemnon"  
_

They'd set out just before dawn that morning from the cabin. Smith woke up to find his horse and Charger already fed, watered, tacked up, and ready to go at the fence rail. There was coffee hot on the stove and some biscuits and cheese that Silas had packed for them. Grabbing his coffee and food, John stepped outside to look for Heath, knowing already where he'd find him.

The sky was beginning to lighten behind the mountains to his left. Looking south toward the house, far out in the pasture, he could see Heath walking next to Sombra, one hand resting on her left shoulder. Heath would stop, and she would stop. Heath walked a meandering path, and she matched him turn for turn. Closer in now, Heath stopped again and moved around the mare, never losing contact with his hand. She stood, seemingly calm, though her ears and eyes were actively following his movement and voice. He ran his hand over her back. She tensed – flinched, really - but did not move away. She stood still, her muscles trembling, the whites of her eyes showing her rising discomfort.

Heath stepped back from her, frowning slightly in thought. John could hear him speaking to the horse in low, friendly tones. Her trembling faded. He approached her again slowly, allowing her to smell his hand. He stroked her neck, and then once again slid his hand over her back, watching her closely. Again she flinched away, almost imperceptibly, and began trembling. As soon as she jumped, Heath removed his hand and came back to her head, letting her eat some oats out of his palm.

"What is your story, girl? Something hurt you -" Thinking out loud, Heath kept a steady flow of words as he pulled gently on her mane and let her lip the last of the oats from his hand. He wanted her to learn his voice, learn he was safe. "You don't like your back to be touched, that scares you, but it seems you're even more scared to move away and say no. Not that I want you to say no, Sombra, I want you to trust me, but it's not right that you just stand there and shake like you're gonna get hurt and ain't nothin' you can do about it. How did that happen? I know you can kick up plenty of fuss when you want, I've got the bruises to prove it. You kept my sister safe…" He trailed off, thoughtful. "Seems there was no holding still for you when you were protecting Audra. So why…?"

Heath had met and worked with plenty of injured, neglected, or abused horses over the years, sometimes with success, sometimes not – but he had never in his memory come across a horse quite like this. She had power, beautiful lines and musculature, and she looked like she'd have all the strength and endurance you could need in a horse. But there was something else about her, something he wanted to understand. In moments like this one, she seemed almost paralyzed with fear and anticipation.

Yesterday, however, Heath had been square in her path, and she was anything but frozen. For all that she could have killed him, he had been awed by her spirit as she came drumming down upon him. She had seemed unstoppable, an apocalyptic force in defense of her own.

Looking back toward the cabin, he saw John waiting at the fence. "Gotta go, Sombra. Maybe we'll learn some more about you today. Hope so." He looked into her eyes for a long moment. Then he patted her neck and started walking back. She followed, matching his limping pace. When he reached the fence and greeted John, she hung back, not wanting to come too close.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know," Heath answered. "Feel like she gave me more questions than answers. You ready to go?"

"Yep." He glanced over at Heath as he mounted Charger. "No sidearm?"

"No."

"No rifle."

"No."

"You got that longbow, I see."

"In case we run into any more rabid animals."

John mounted up and came alongside. "Why no gun, Heath? I mean, I could make a good guess, but –"

Heath interrupted him, apparently expecting the question. "John, I almost shot you the night you rode into my camp. You understand me? _I almost shot you_. Had the slack up on the trigger thinking for sure you were some horse thief, or one of these local boys who are still lookin' to catch the Barkley bastard out on his lonesome with his guard down. I coulda killed you. Can you imagine? Maybe not. But I can. Something startles me, or I think I see something...I just - I don't trust myself right now."

"Yeah, I get what you're saying, Heath. I won't argue with you - it's your choice to make. But I will say this – _I_ trust you."

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On the way into town, they stopped by Zimmer's place to let him know about his dog. The farmer didn't look surprised – he figured something had happened to him, gone for so many days. The dog's panting presence on the back porch with his two siblings, eager and ready to work, was part of this farm's early morning routine. The two other shepherds now lay by the back door of the house, looking rather bereft themselves. Jake's eyes were mournful, as he apologized for the scare Audra had. He shook Heath's hand, and went back to his work.

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Arriving in Stockton, Smith checked in first with Sheriff Madden, who offered his office as a place to interview the prospective deputies. He raised his eyebrows to see Heath walk in behind the marshal. "Howdy, Heath, you thinking of getting into the lawman business? Can't imagine Nick would take kindly to that idea. I hope Marshal Smith isn't bringing _you_ in for something."

"No, Frank, just helpin' out. Marshal's got a big job ahead of him." Heath could see Madden was still puzzling over his presence here rather than working the ranch. "I – uh – I got to know Marshal Smith over in Nevada. So when he had work to do here in our area, he asked if I could help –"

Hearing the mention of Nevada, John thought he saw Madden wince slightly and glance at Heath with a flash of pity, quickly suppressed. John did not for a second think that Heath missed the sheriff's reaction. Heath's expression was pained as he focused on moving the conversation forward, deflecting further questions from the sheriff, and getting the marshal settled behind the desk.

"I'll tell you what, Marshal," Madden said, sensing the tension and trying to make light of it, "Heath can be very good company, so long as you don't let him empty your wallet playing poker. Believe me, I know. I've had him locked up here a few times." He got no response. Seeing his attempt at humor fall flat, the sheriff decided he'd better retreat before he stuck his other foot in his mouth. "OK, well, I'll leave you to it, Marshal. Let me know if you need anything." He practically ran out the door.

Heath sighed. "I'll go bring in your first guy."

The deputy interviews proceeded on schedule. Heath took a seat off to the side behind the marshal as he spoke with each of the candidates. He'd occasionally ask a few questions of his own, took a few notes, and offered his opinion after the interview. All in all, Smith thought it had been a productive morning. Two likely hires out of three wasn't bad, and Heath's input had been as valuable as he'd hoped.

One fellow looked good on paper, but Heath shook his head. He'd seen him too many times in town, drunk and scaring the hell out of the saloon girls. Not a guy you'd want to empower with a badge.

The next was a man Heath knew by observation when he'd worked on other spreads in the area, before coming to the Barkleys. The applicant had a bit of a shady past – from some of his answers Heath suspected he might have done some smuggling along the waterways. Heath had worked with him briefly as a hand on nearby ranch. He remembered him as being a hard worker, able to lose gracefully at poker, and steady in a crisis. An irrigation dam broke one day they were working together. Flooding threatened the granary of a next-door farm. The man had quickly gotten the other hands organized with sand bags, even though it wasn't his property that needed protecting. Heath thought with some guidance, he could be a very good deputy.

The third applicant was a young, serious sheriff's deputy from Lodi who reminded both of them a bit of Anton Ramos, Smith's former second. He was polite and well-informed, and he came with letters of recommendation from both the Lodi sheriff and from his schoolmaster. Signing him on was an easy decision.

Over lunch, Heath and John reviewed maps of southern California, as John described the anticipated organization of the growing federal circuit court system and the parallel need for an expanded US Marshal service. Heath seemed attentive, interested, and the comments and suggestions that he offered were practical and insightful.

John Smith's new position was an entirely administrative and political post. He was now the "head Federale", as Heath would say, for the entire booming western frontier, with its rapidly increasing need for federal courts, federal judges, and - his turf - federal law enforcement, to support and carry out the will of those courts and judges.

John Smith considered it his job over the next few years to recruit and train a cohort of professional, dedicated deputy marshals to protect and serve the federal courts of his vast district. He figured if he did his job right, if he could plant those ideals and standards, help them get some roots in the ground, in a few years, he could retire and let the men he had trained bring up the next generation.

It was a wide-ranging job, but as it didn't involve chasing bad guys through the mountains, it allowed him to spend time in Sacramento with his daughter, son-in-law, and brand new granddaughter. It made it possible to visit Victoria, the woman he hoped would agree to be his wife. And it gave him opportunity to offer whatever help he could to her son, struggling here beside him under a burden he could only begin to imagine.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

By early afternoon, Heath and John were riding south from Stockton, following the San Joaquin River toward French Camp, looking for the men who had sold the big black mare to Jameson. It was humid, warm, and misty down here at sea level, especially along the waterway. Fields stretched, flat, green and damp, in all directions. The smell of tilled soil in the windless air was almost overwhelming.

"Sure doesn't smell like Nevada," Smith commented. "So much water in the air."

"Yup, water's the thing down here. Too much all at once, then none at all for months. Personally I like being up a little higher. Gets downright steamy down here in the delta. And when it floods, boy howdy, the valley can look like the ocean just moved in."

As the two men reached a fork in the river, Heath pointed up ahead. "That's the campsite most of the tramps through here use. I bet we'll find 'em there."

Smith didn't ask how Heath knew that, but he followed along behind, now at a higher state of alert. He would not expect to find a friendly or lawful group of men camped down this way, and knowing they'd tortured a horse for prize money made him even more certain of that fact. He loosened his sidearm slightly in the holster, and his rifle, aware that the increasing humidity could make the leather swell and get sticky.

The track became narrower and closed in by dense foliage as they came up even with the campsite. Smith counted four men visible, apparently sleeping, though there were six horses tethered to the line. Smith heard Heath mutter, "Oh, _hell_. I think I know these guys."

All four of the "sleeping" men sat up with guns in their hands as Heath reached the campsite, while their two hidden compatriots rose out of the brush behind John to close them both in. Heath had a sour expression as he surveyed the men surrounding them. His eyes settled on the man standing right in front of him.

"It's – um – Jasper, right? That's you?"

"Yeah. That's _Mr_. Jasper, to you. And what brings you down here to the flats….. _Barkley_?" Jasper rolled the name out like it was an obscenity.

Heath sighed and looked an apology at John. No matter how this played out, it was going to be unpleasant. That's just how it was with this crew.

"Jasper, I was hoping –"

"I said, that's _Mr_. Jasper, Barkley." Two rifles came up and pointed at Heath.

Heath swallowed, took a breath, started again. " _Mr_. Jasper. I was hoping you could tell me something about where you got that black draft horse you sold at the fair."

Jasper started to laugh. "You want to know about _that_ horse? That crazy black devil horse that couldn't get out of her own way when it came to doing any actual useful work? _You_ do? Oh, that's precious. That's perfect." Still laughing, he wiped his watering eyes and pointed at Heath. "You want to know about that horse? Well then you get down here, Barkley, 'cause this I want to tell you to your face."

Heath hesitated, looking at the armed men surrounding them, all now chuckling along with Jasper.

Jasper suddenly became deadly serious. "I said, get down off that horse, Barkley."

With a glance at John, Heath dismounted and approached the center of the campsite. Jasper circled him. "You ain't looking so fit, are you now, Barkley. Nice limp you came home with," he commented, looking him over critically. "I was happy to hear they gave you a good going over in Nevada. And no gun?" He squinted up at the marshal, who was watching him closely, eyes narrow. "What's with the escort, hm? The family finally decide just to hire a lawman to keep their bastard on a short leash?" He laughed meanly, stepping in close now. "They shoulda done that right from the git-go. Shoulda paid to have you run outta town the day you showed up. Damned if I know why they let you set foot in that house."

"The horse, Jasper."

Jasper hit him. Heath kept his balance, wiped some blood from his lip, looked again at the gunmen flanking them. "Yeah, right. _Mr_. Jasper. The horse?"

Jasper gave a satisfied grunt. "Well here's what funny. That useless devil horse came from _Strawberry_. You believe that? So now the Barkleys have a pair of you. Two crazy, beat-up, good-for-nothing workhorses from Strawberry." He smiled around at his crew, who were laughing along with him now. "It's perfect, isn't it? At least I made a few dollars on the horse. Can't say _you_ ever profited me anything. On the contrary. You've cost me some coin. Like to take it out on your hide, I would." The men hooted encouragement as Jasper grabbed the front of Heath's jacket and yanked him close.

"I wouldn't advise that, gentlemen." Smith spoke for the first time. "Not unless you want the full wrath of the US Marshal Service and the Stockton sheriff to come down on your heads. Frank Madden knows exactly where we are and who we came looking for, as do both of Heath's brothers, who, by the way, are quite fit, and well-armed. That'd mean a lot more trouble for you than the petty crimes you've done time for so far."

Jasper tightened his grip and pushed his face in close, breathing whiskey and bad tobacco. Heath clenched his teeth, fighting nausea and the slipping, sinking feeling of losing his hold on the moment. The smell, the violence, the hands fisted up in his jacket - it was all doubling back on Heath in layers of other whiskey-stinking men, of being outnumbered and closed in by other laughing men. Prison guards, outlaws, Reb soldiers, his Uncle Matt; they began rising up in a tide that threatened to drown him. He could feel the tremor thrumming in his bones, a deep shaking of the soul that would echo later in the shaking of his hands. Drums of war, of rage. It was the rage that had suddenly flared yesterday when he struck his brother. He couldn't go there. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, desperately trying to stay where he was and push that horrible killing rhythm from his mind. John was there behind him, he knew. That helped. Heath wished he could see him, but instead he listened for his voice, his words.

"How do _you_ know what we've done time for?" Jasper countered, his eyes still on Heath. He was reluctant to let go his chance for payback.

"Oh, I know, Jasper. And it likely will be the last trouble you and your boys will _ever_ have." Smith's eyes were merciless. "So why don't you share whatever else you know about that horse, and we'll be on our way."

Jasper folded then, grumbling, and his crew lowered their weapons. He let go of Heath, shoving him back toward his horse. "I don't know nothin' much else about her. Belonged to some family, was some kind of accident, wildfire maybe, I don't know."

"When?" Smith was asking the questions, his eyes now following Heath as he limped back to his waiting horse.

"Sometime over the summer. Family was killed, horse was injured, sold to some waggoneers, they couldn't get no work out of her. I took her off their hands about a month ago, had her for a couple weeks till Jameson bought her."

"What did the drivers say about her?'

"She'd freeze up and start shaking when they'd harness her. Wouldn't pull, wouldn't move. She'd go crazy in the barn, broke a guy's arm fighting him tryin' to get her in a stall. They couldn't beat no sense into her. I figured I'd see if we could get her to pull. Seemed a shame all that muscle goin' to waste. Should be able to get an animal to at least move in one direction if something hurts enough, right? But not her. Was gonna sell her for parts next."

Back up on Charger, Heath was ferociously forcing his attention to stay on what Jasper was saying, in large part to push away the reverberating memories that had risen up over him, to calm himself down and get himself anchored again in the present moment. Taking in the information, thinking about the mystery of the horse – this was helping, though he now realized the primary order of business now was to get the hell out of there. Charger wheeled around at his prompt, more than ready to move out.

Heath sent a grateful look of relief to John. When he turned back to Jasper, his face was unreadable. "Much obliged, Mr. Jasper. Always a pleasure."

"A pleasure, my ass. I'll tell you what would be a pleasure, Barkley - hearing that horse busted your head open. That would be a pleasure."

"You may get your wish. C'mon, Marshal, let's go get some fresh air."

Once they were clear of the river and on the open road back to Stockton, John felt himself breathing easier. Heath had remained silent. Glancing over, John could see his hands shaking as he reached up to pull his hat further down over his eyes.

"How you doin', Heath?"

Heath kept his eyes down. "I'm doin', I guess. Glad I had you with me. That wouldn't have been so pretty otherwise." He shook his head. "That was stupid. Coulda gotten you killed. I should've found out more from Jameson before I went walking into that campsite. Just stupid. I'm just not - not thinkin' straight. And not a very useful assistant." _I'm going to be more of a liability than a help to him, seems to me. Riding in today, I'm startin' to feel like everyone thinks I'm crazy; if they're kindly, they pity me. If they're_ not _kindly, well, then they smell blood._

 _Can't blame 'em._ I _think I'm crazy half the time._

"Well, I could say the same myself, Heath, and you were plenty useful this morning. What's the story with those yahoos?"

"I tangled with them when I came into town the first time, before I came to the family. They were robbing a peddler they had caught out on the road. I got lucky – I was alone, but I got the drop on them and chased them off. Few months later they turned up looking for field work on the ranch. I happened to be there when Nick was looking them over. They weren't too happy when he turned them down and told them to get lost. Not a nice bunch."

Heath was silent then for a few minutes, watching the road moving past under his horse's feet. Figured he ought to say something more, given that his messed up thinking was a big part of the reason Smith was out here riding through the flats.

John waited.

Heath took a deep breath. "I've been through this before. It was never quite this bad though." He knew he was being vague, groping as he was for some words to explain. He met John's eyes for a second, then looked back down again. "You ever been in a hall of mirrors? I've always hated them."

John nodded agreement. "Yeah. Me too. Can't stand 'em."

"Sometimes, now, it seems like - well - take Jasper back there, for example. I see him, but then he starts reflecting back and forth, all mixed up with all the other lowlifes who wanted to beat the tar out of me, all around me and going on endlessly, till I can't tell who the real ones are. Till I can't tell what the actual danger is right in front of me – or if it's even a danger at all. Maybe it's just my friend walking into my campsite." He began to feel short of breath, feeling that drumming in his bones, remembering it moving through him. "It was never this bad before. I hit Nick, in the barn, I hit him because he was coming at me and it wasn't just him anymore, and all I felt for a second was just anger. I hit my brother. Like I could've shot you.

"Part of me wants to just smash everything I see. That's one way to deal with a hall of mirrors, right? But I can't go that way – I don't want to go that way. The anger, it doesn't lead anywhere good. And what's in those mirrors – it's my _life_. It's what happened. It's what I lived. I can't erase it without erasing myself. But I don't know how to fit all back together. How to – how to keep it all in its place."

He felt sick, frustrated, worn out, and a little jealous of that hound they buried out in the pasture. Done and gone. Jake and his two dogs free to be a little sad and then move on. _Lord, I want to move on. I wish I could just move on._


	13. Chapter 13 - Negotiation

_What Exile from himself can flee?  
_ _To zones, though more and more remote,  
_ _Still, still pursues, where-e'er I be,  
_ _The blight of life—the demon thought._

 _Lord Byron (1788–1824)  
_ _"To Inez"_

* * *

 _Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn,  
_ _Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;  
_ _Laugh heart again in the gray twilight,  
_ _Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn._

 _Your mother Eire is always young,  
_ _Dew ever shining and twilight gray;  
_ _Though hope fall from you and love decay,  
_ _Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue._

 _Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:  
_ _For there the mystical brotherhood  
_ _Of sun and moon and hollow and wood  
_ _And river and stream work out their will;_

 _And God stands winding His lonely horn,  
_ _And time and the world are ever in flight;  
_ _And love is less kind than the gray twilight,  
_ _And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn._

 _William Butler Yeats  
_ _"Into the Twilight"_

* * *

 _"Part of me wants to just smash everything I see. That's one way to deal with a hall of mirrors, right? But I can't go that way – I don't want to go that way. The anger, it doesn't lead anywhere good. And what's in those mirrors – it's my_ life _. It's what happened. It's what I lived. I can't erase it without erasing myself. But I don't know how to fit it all back together. How to – how to keep it all in its place."_

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"So - how _did_ you manage before?"

John didn't miss the discomfort his question provoked – he could see Heath's shoulders grow tense, his hands become restless. There was a look of shame on his face. Nevertheless, with an effort, Heath tried to answer John's question.

"It does help to talk about it. I know it does. When we were in Carterson, and in the years afterward, I had Rivka, and her mother Hadassah. They knew most of what happened in the camp. I'd feel like I was losing my mind, and they would listen, and help me think it through, see things as they were. Help me _see_ it, remember it, but leave it in the past where it belongs.

"Four years ago Rivka left to go to medical school. We wrote to each other all that time. I waited for her to come back to California. She was always able to remind me of whom I am, help me at least start to put all that history back behind me without having to pretend it didn't happen.

"Things would happen sometimes that would make the remembering worse. Like what you heard from Jasper back there. That's nothin' new - it's not even uncommon. The family doesn't know the half of it, though it's a little better compared to when I first came to Stockton a year and a half ago. I get versions of that from swamp bandits like Jasper, all the way up to the president of the Stockton Bank, last time I stopped by instead of Nick to sign some papers.

"Growing up, it used to be 'cause I was a dirt-poor bastard; now it's 'cause the bastard is livin' with the rich folks just like he belongs there. Nothin' new, and nothin' I couldn't manage. But six months ago, I at least had my head on straight. I wasn't jumping at every loud noise or sighting my rifle on shadows that might be a man coming into my camp. Six months ago, I felt as free, as strong, as safe as I ever have in my life. Rivka was going to come back soon, and I wanted to share all that with her, start a life together with her.

"But then, when she finally did come back, I – I was -"

He had to stop for a moment, unsure of his voice. He swallowed, took a breath. "When she came back, I was locked up. Locked up, half dead, and almost completely out of my mind. As you know. I was a mess. Again."

Heath tipped his head back and gazed up at the sky, the beginnings of pink and lavender hues in the clouds as the sun set behind them. A breeze had picked up, and he thought he could feel a hint of cool mountain air moving around them. "I get feelin' useless, wishing I could just be gone, like that mad dog. I don't want to be a burden to Rivka, or to this family – and maybe that's part of why I can't just shake it off this time. I can't get out from under it by myself. I can't. But I think - I think I really believed I could be a part of this family without bringing that past along with me. That I could keep it all separate - maybe even that I _had_ to keep it all separate.

"Might as well believe these scars on my back would just disappear. Foolin' myself. Pretending these terrible things never happened makes me crazy. But - telling it, making it real – I can't do that to them. I'm bringing something terrible into their lives that shouldn't have to be there. I don't like either choice."

As the afternoon waned, the two men turned east on a rising track toward the ranch, their shadows stretching before them toward the snow covered mountains in the distance. Heath raised his eyes from the dusty ground and looked out at the horizon. To John, he seemed weary, old beyond his years. Still, despite the sadness, his eyes were thoughtful as he looked at the road ahead of them. Heath was not dead (not yet), nor defeated (yet), but John knew Death had a seat in this negotiation, and was leaning in like an old friend with a sizeable stake on the table and some very compelling bargaining points.

John could well imagine some of those arguments, having begun such negotiations himself after the death of his wife so many years ago. Death did not need much strategy with him at that time; he was in such an agony of grief, a simple relief from the pain was reason enough to consider suicide. Their children were young then, his daughter Grace only 3, and his James just turned 14. Their suffering at the loss of their mother subsumed his own. In the end, he felt not so much that he had made a decision to live, but that the needs of his children were so consuming that he and Death never got around to settling the matter one way or another. He simply realized one day that he had continued living, as he watched the young man in a new Union Cavalry uniform help his baby sister ride the pony she had gotten for her 11th birthday. Two years later, James would be gone from them forever, and Death came back briefly to continue the conversation. John understood more clearly, then. No pain was enough to make him choose to leave his children. Not his grief for Caroline, nor the loss of James. Grace was 13 then, with her brother's eyes and laugh, and her mother's talent with horses. She had adored her big brother, and cried herself to sleep for months. John stepped back from the marshal service for a few years so he could be at home every day, and a judge took him on as a clerk and part-time bailiff until Grace turned 16.

John didn't know – and couldn't really imagine - what memories of Hell Heath carried with him. These catastrophic shards of experience were unanchored, reactive, destructive. John did not know how one would go about taking hold of these lacerating fragments, handling them and fitting them into a mosaic that is coherent and has meaning, but it seemed to him without that, the shrapnel would continue to do its damage, and his friend would die.

John believed, also, that one antidote to this sort of madness was to seek out the smallest hint of ability to form a loving connection with another. Seek it out, nurture it, even when – especially when – one feels furthest away, when terrible experience seems to prove that one is alone in a whistling empty place beyond love. He knew Heath had that ability. The boy couldn't stop himself, really – one had only to see him with Audra, and her horse, to recognize that, or with any of his family, if one knew how to look.

His worry was that Heath would come to the decision that his family would be better off without him. On one side of the scale was Heath's desire to insulate the Barkleys from the violence of his history, and relieve both them and Rivka of the burden of his difficulties. Added to this was his urgent need for respite from the constant intrusion of fear and memory and sadness. On these points, Death had a strong argument.

The factor weighing in on the other side was the love and care and commitment that bonded him to Rivka and to his family, the evidence of which was all around him. There were the ways, small and large, that they reminded Heath that he was needed; not just "useful", but necessary. There was the joy and meaning Heath found in the life and work he had found there with the Barkleys, but such joy was often buffeted far from his reach by the trouble in his mind, and did not suffice to tether him.

Also in his favor: Heath was stubborn. He was a survivor. And there was that pride.

Yet still, Death seemed too confident. Death should not be finding an easy win at this table. There was something missing. Something important. John continued to think on that, as they crested a low rise and passed a sign marking a boundary of the Barkley ranch.

"It's about 5:15. We should be in time for dinner, and then you'll be able to tell my mother that you got 3 good meals into me today. I am certain she will show you her appreciation." Heath glanced back at John with a flash of a grin. Looking forward again, he added, "Go ahead, check your watch. I know you want to."

John did. 5:15. He shook his head with a smile.

Heath kept his eyes on the mountains rising beyond the house, the snow fields turning rose and gold in the sunset. He was worn out from so much talking. He wanted to apologize to John for giving him so much to listen to. He tried to steer his words – and his thinking – toward something positive. "It's good to be busy," he said, hesitantly, "to be useful. To take care of someone else instead of listening to my own crazy thinking – like helping my sister figure out an unhappy horse."

"You want to go to Strawberry, don't you."

"Yeah, I do. Kinda think there's a lot more to that mare's story. And I want to see Hannah, make sure she's OK for the winter. Bring her down to the Valley, if she'll let me." Heath laughed to himself. "Hannah's another one could usually knock a little sense into my head. Probably do me more good to see her than I'll do her. In fact I'm sure of it."


	14. Chapter 14 - Manna from Heaven

_Wind sways the pines,  
And below  
Not a breath of wild air;  
Still as the mosses that glow  
On the flooring and over the lines  
Of the roots here and there.  
The pine-tree drops its dead;  
They are quiet, as under the sea.  
Overhead, overhead  
Rushes life in a race,  
As the clouds the clouds chase;  
And we go,  
And we drop like the fruits of the tree,  
Even we,  
Even so._

 _George Meredith_

 _"Dirge in Woods"_

* * *

 _The very winds whispered in soothing accents, and maternal Nature bade me weep no more._

 _Mary Shelley_

 _"Frankenstein"_

* * *

It was full twilight as Heath and John approached home. Heath could never pass under that remarkable wrought iron gate without thinking of the first time he rode up and saw his brothers standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the veranda of their impossibly impressive house. They had seemed so proud, so confident, so unshakably _at home._ Heath had felt anything but confident as he faced those Masters of the Castle, wearing his best threadbare shirt and his own dusty pride. Yes, he had pride, and in that moment he made up for the rest by being a bit cocky.

He knew his brothers now to be human, not so unshakeable, but in Heath's eyes, they still carried a bone-deep confidence, a rooted _at-home-ness_ that he had suspected he would never attain, born as it was from a lifelong experience of belonging. Heath could see this was a well of strength for his brothers, and while he himself might never tap into the source of those waters, he drew from that stream, and, watching them, tried to understand whence it came. Lately his line of sight had become so closed in on the task of getting through the day, one hour at a time, even one minute at a time, that he didn't much think himself into the future. But when he could picture it, he hoped that his own children would have that knowledge of belonging that he saw in his brothers.

In the meantime, though, Heath did purely enjoy rattling his brothers' confidence and keeping them just a bit off balance when he could.

On this evening, though, as he and John neared home, Heath was thinking of Hannah, and of the two women whose pine-shaded graves she tended in that dusty, threadbare town up in the hills. His mother was only 19 when he was born. As brutally hard as life was at times for her, her love for her son, and her belief in him, was unshakable. He could feel her love in his bones, running through his veins. It was what he was made of. Times he was alone and terrified, times he lay dying, his body empty, it seemed that love was all that was left of him.

Standing beside his mother, in his mind, always, was Rachael. She had been there for Leah since before he was born. Rachael was _in love_ with Leah, this was always clear to see, but her devotion to their unconventional family was ferocious and deeply rooted, undiminished by any unrequited romantic feelings. _Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people._ The verse was inscribed on the small silver jewelry box Rachael had given to Leah, which she used to hold her best sewing things. The box was cradled in his mother's hands as she was buried.

Rachael had sent Heath off with her love and blessing to find his father's family, but soon after, she followed her Leah into death, murdered trying to defend her son's path forward into his new life. The loss of Rachael had been a massive shock to Heath, a grievous wound within a wound, coming as it did so soon after the death of his mother. At Hannah's urging, Heath had allowed Jarrod to handle the matter of bringing Heath's Uncle Matt and his Aunt Martha to justice for the murder. Instinctively, he knew she was right. Overwhelmed, he could not venture near that task of reprisal lest he be lost in a bottomless whirlpool of anger and revenge. Losing both Rachael and his mother had been a shapeless, wordless pain, and he felt he had barely begun to grieve for his mother, and for Rachael, each and together.

These three women had given him his own well of strength and compassion. He knew this, though lately he realized he'd been losing sight of it, thinking he was lost in the desert. One year ago, he had returned to Strawberry to place decent headstones for both his mother and for Rachael. Standing in the hush of the forest over the side-by-side graves, Heath had begged Hannah to come with him down to the valley. He had been frantic to keep her safe, to keep her with him, to keep from losing her too. She had laughed at him, grieving though she still was herself.

 _"Heath, child, the people we love, they like manna from heaven. You gotta love 'em while you got 'em. You can't store 'em up somehow for later. You jes' gotta believe that when the sun come up in the mornin' there gonna be love there for you if you know where to look." Reaching up, she took his face in her small, strong hands and looked into his eyes with a sad smile. "If you_ willin _' to look, you understand me?"_

 _"But, Hannah, I –"_

 _"You need to find your way with this new family, Heath. You always have me, where ever I be. Besides," she winked at him, tipping her head toward the two graves, "them two ladies always did spoil you, boy. You know I never did, and I ain't gonna start. Not sure you can handle jes' me on your hide."_

She made him laugh, and then she kissed him and shooed him on his way with a promise to have the schoolmistress help her write a letter to him if she needed anything over the winter. Smiling a little at the memory, Heath began thinking through a list of repairs and supplies for around Hannah's small house that would need looking to before winter arrived.

The gate in sight, the horses picked up their pace, eager for home themselves. As they trotted under the archway, Audra came running out the front door, calling to her brother.

"Heath! You're finally here! I have something to show you. Give Ciego the horses and come inside." She ran alongside Charger, breathlessly looking up at Heath. He laughed down at her.

"What is it?"

"I'll show you when you come in. I've been waiting for your all afternoon! Just hurry." She ran off, calling to Ciego to get the horses.

John watched her go, smiling. "Does she always come barreling out to you like that when you come home?"

Heath laughed again. "No, honest, that's not typical - though it is kinda nice."

At Victoria's insistence, the men were sent off to get cleaned up for dinner, though she unhesitatingly allowed John to pull her into an embrace on his way upstairs, road dust and all. Jarrod and Nick grinned at each other. Audra fussed over the dust on her mother's dress and scolded her uncharacteristically as she brushed her off. Victoria smiled at her.

"Audra, it's just a little dirt. Listen to you! You sound just like me, except you tended to do such things as climb trees and chase horses in your nice dresses."

"Well – I feel like someone's got to keep an eye on that Marshal Smith. Getting you all messy right before dinner – Nick would never get away with that – _and_ he's supposed to be keeping Heath out of trouble, and it looks to me like somebody punched him!"

Jarrod appeared to offer his mother a drink before dinner. "I think she's right on all points, Mother. Nick would never get away with that. And I want to know what happened in town today."

As soon as Heath appeared on the staircase dressed for dinner, Audra ran up to grab his hand, fending off Victoria, who wanted to see if Heath was injured. "He can tell us all about whatever fight he was in afterwards," she insisted, her impatience getting the best of her. Heath looked a question at Nick, who only grinned and shrugged, but followed along as she led him into the library.

"Heath, I think she's Friesian! Come look at these books."

That got Heath's full attention as he recognized the name. He and Audra bent over the volumes that lay open on the library table. He was nodding. "Yes – yes, you may be right – I've heard of them. Never seen one. They're rare in America, at least outside of New York. And very expensive. So how did she end up in - -?"

Nick interrupted, confused. He turned to Jarrod. "Freezing? What does she mean, she's freezing?"

Victoria laughed as she entered on John's arm. "Not _freezing_ , Nick. Friesian. It's a horse breed, though I can't say I know much more about it than that."

Jarrod agreed. "I've heard the name. I think perhaps I saw a team of them pulling a hearse at a state funeral when I was in New York many years ago. They called them "Belgian Blacks". Incredibly beautiful. Four perfectly matched black draft horses."

"They're actually from the Netherlands," Audra said, looking up from a giant illustrated book on equestrian history and breeding. "The breed goes back 600 years, according to this. The Dutch brought them to New York in the 1600's."

"Wouldn't she be registered somewhere, if she is a – what was the name – a Friesian?" Nick wondered.

"Maybe not," Heath said, reading from a current breeder's catalogue. "Looks like they've only recently begun keeping a studbook. But from what I see here, Sombra might have too much of a white blaze to meet the standards. She's easily big enough – I measured her at 16 hands, and now that Audra's fed her up, she definitely has the conformation. The arched neck, the feathering on her legs, the long wavy mane and tail – but says here to be registered they must be full black, with no more than a white star between the eyes. I wonder if that blaze would be enough to decrease her money value, enough that an ordinary family could have owned her."

Victoria looked over his shoulder at the catalogue. "That's possible. If she couldn't be registered and bred as pure, she'd basically then just be a very pretty draft horse, wouldn't she?"

"Well, it should be easy for me to find out who she belonged to up there," Heath said, starting to leaf through one of the other breeding books Audra had opened.

"Up where, Heath? You planning to go somewhere?" Jarrod asked, suddenly a little concerned. "And who, by the way, punched you in the face today?"


	15. Chapter 15 - Going Somewhere

" _Going_ somewhere? Whaddya mean!?" Nick suddenly latched onto Jarrod's question and rounded it back on Heath with a little bit more force than he intended. Startled, Heath actually took a step back in retreat. He opened his mouth to reply, but found himself for the moment speechless as five pairs of eyes seemed to pin him to the wall.

Once again, Audra jumped in to help him out, trying to draw his focus back to her and the horse. "Heath? Did you find out where Sombra is from?"

It was a simple question. Heath cleared his throat, and with an effort, attempted to mute the alarms going off in his head. He frowned slightly, annoyed with himself at the way he kept reacting so defensively to Nick. He decided he'd direct his answer to his loud but well-meaning brother as a conciliatory gesture.

"John and I found them down near French Camp. They told us she came from Strawberry."

"Is that who hit you?" Jarrod asked.

"Yeah," Heath admitted, still looking at Nick. "Coulda been worse if John hadn't been with me. Nick, it was that same bunch you ran off the ranch last fall, remember, the ones I caught robbing that peddler."

" _Those_ swamp rats? Heath, you're lucky they didn't kill you on sight!"

"I know, I know, Nick, believe me, I get it," he answered, doing his best to placate his brother.

"And _now_ you want to go running off to -"

"Hold on, Nick, take it easy," Jarrod interrupted, seeing that Nick was heating up rather than cooling down.

Heath looked around the room as he tried to sort through the clamor of thought and reaction jostling for primacy in his mind. There was that anger, rumbling low in the background. He would not let that beast loose inside this house. He'd sooner remove himself, for good if necessary.

There was a milder echo of that rage. It was annoyance - with himself and his jumpiness and his fragmented thinking - pushing in impatiently like steam from a boiler. That was a feeling he could use, maybe. Something to help him not leave, and not fall apart.

And Lord, did he ever want to just leave and try to calm down on the back porch as he so often had. He caught John's eye, standing by Victoria. John nodded encouragingly, and Heath noticed that Victoria also seemed at ease, waiting to hear what he had to say. That steadied him, and he thought of Hannah.

 _You need to find your way with this new family, Heath. Don't you be runnin' to me unless you dug in and tried your very best where you standin'._

Hearing Hannah scolding him there in that grand room of Italian furniture and leather-bound books suddenly struck Heath as funny. _This is not a room full of enemies,_ he reminded himself. _These are people who spent months fighting to get me home from Nevada_. He shook his head with laugh and a rueful smile, surprising everyone in the room, each of whom had been bracing for a very different reaction. Heath moved closer to the table again, opening his hands and laying down the book he had been gripping like a vise. He took a breath.

"Nick's right, it was plain stupid of me to ride out looking for those guys before I found out more about them. Jasper would have killed me, I have no doubt, if John hadn't been there. And I should never have gotten him in that situation either. I'm so sorry about that," Heath added, looking at his mother.

"Jasper said Sombra belonged to a family up in Strawberry, that there was some sort of accident up there that killed the family and injured the horse. Waggoneers bought her, couldn't make her work, so Jasper's crew bought her to see if she'd at least pull for them if they beat her enough. Matches what you heard from Jameson," Heath said to Jarrod.

"Yes, it fits," Jarrod agreed. "So she was already having trouble before Jasper got her. You're thinking you can find out what happened to her up in Strawberry? Certainly might help you and Audra work with her. You know, it's funny, I've been meaning to ask you whether you planned to go up to see Hannah soon. You could do both."

Now Heath was surprised. Visiting Hannah wasn't something he had talked about, and Heath found himself suddenly deeply moved that Jarrod had remembered and even given it a thought. Before he could respond, though, Audra interjected.

"I want to go too." At the skeptical and worried looks she received, she added, "She's my horse. And besides, I want to meet Hannah."

This proposal made Heath very uncomfortable, though he wasn't yet sure why. Of course Audra would want to go. This was his sister – in fact, he'd probably wonder if she didn't insist on it. So why was he suddenly so anxious? No, not anxious. Terrified was more like it.

 _What is my **problem**? _

His anger with himself cranked up another notch, and he practically growled at himself in frustration. He leaned his hands on the tabletop, frowning at the pile of books in concentration and annoyance. _Find your way, Heath_. He looked up at his two brothers, thinking that what he needed right now was something he had not a clue how to ask for, and he wasn't sure which scared him more, the need or the not knowing.

"Of course Audra wants to go," he said. "She's right, Sombra is her horse. She _should_ go." He licked his lips, swallowed in a dry throat, still not sure where he was going with this. An echo - _Audra needs me -_ crossed his mind, and he knew that was language his brothers absolutely understood. "Nick," he said, feeling he was begging his brother to help him figure this out. "She should go. Right? But I don't know if I – I mean, someone should be with her, and I don't – I don't –"

Nick sighed loudly and walked to the table across from Heath, who fell silent and apprehensively watched him approach. Both hands on the table, Nick leaned in to look Heath in the eye, matching his brother's posture. Heath didn't look away, but he tensed, bracing himself for bad news.

"Heath, you know, for a very smart guy, you can be incredibly stupid sometimes."

These past weeks, Nick had watched Heath wrestling with loads that were too heavy and work that was too painful for his still-healing bones and muscles. Nick realized he'd been slow to see that's what was happening ( _OK_ , _maybe I didn't_ want _to see, and neither did Heath, for that matter, that stubborn, pigheaded…_ ), and so Heath was left to believe that's what he, Nick, expected from him. And now here they were, Heath clearly feeling like he'd failed somehow and struggling under a problem that, this time, Nick could see plain as day. He leaned in a little closer.

"And so can I be incredibly stupid, Heath, no argument there. But this seems obvious to me, so I'll say it for you. _Yes_ , she should be able to go if she wants. And yes, someone should be with her. An armed, able, healthy male member of her family should go with her. Any other time, Heath, neither you, nor I, nor anyone in this family would have a problem with you riding out with Audra. But right now is different, Heath. You've been pretending you're fine, and you'll practically drop dead before you'll ask for help. That's stupid, OK, but it's not the end of the world when we're just hauling bags of feed.

"But the reason you're having such a bad, bad feeling about _this_ , Heath, is because _you_ know damn well that you can't – you _won't_ \- risk your sister's safety just to avoid saying you can't manage something right now. Right? You know it, we all get it, so for God's sake, Heath, just ask us to help."

vvvvvvvvv

 _Great Powers of falling wave and wind and windy fire,_

 _With_ _your harmonious choir_

 _Encircle_ _her I love and sing her into peace,_

 _That_ _my old care may cease;_

 _Unfold_ _your flaming wings and cover out of sight_

 _The_ _nets of day and night._

 _W. B. Yeats_

 _"Aedh pleads with the Elemental Powers"_

 _Dear Rivka,_

 _I got the letters that Jarrod brought from you. I miss you so much. I'll admit I'm a little jealous of Jarrod that he gets to see you once in a while, though I'm glad that someone from the family can be nearby at least sometimes in case you need someone in the city. It helps me worry less. I'll try to back off a little on the flowers so you have room for other things in your apartment._

 _I know, you tell me I have no need to worry. You were living in an even bigger city thousands of miles away for four years. Still, I'm going to worry. I love you._

 _Your work in the clinic sounds difficult and exciting, and I can hear in your writing what a wonderful experience this is for you. What's going to happen during the winter? Aren't you going to be even busier than you are now? It seems like you barely have enough time to rest as it is. I'm glad the surgical training you're getting is living up to your expectations. The treatments and procedures you describe are amazing. And so many families you've helped that wouldn't get any care or medicine otherwise. We heard in the papers here about the fire at the German Hospital across town from you. The article talked about how "the lady doctors" went to help care for the patients and brought some over to stay at your clinic. I am so proud of what you are doing. Mother and Jarrod are planning and doing paperwork to make an endowment of money to support your free clinic, and if there's anything I can do to help, you know I'll be there. I'm a pretty good carpenter, I can help with the little ones if they need wrangling, and I can even do ambulance repairs._

 _I'm going to make sure this letter gets to the mail early tomorrow. I am planning to ride up to Strawberry, just for a few days. I probably won't write from there, because a letter probably would never reach you before you were already with us for Thanksgiving._

 _I've been wanting to visit Hannah. I hope I can convince her to come home with me for the winter at least. I know she really wants to meet you in person, after all these years, so I'm going to use your visit as my bargaining chip to pry her out of the mountains for a spell. I'll be checking too on my Mama's grave, and Aunt Rachael's. I wish Mama and Rachael could have known you. Well, they did know you, through me, but I wish we could have had some time all together. How are your parents, and the twins? Do you have any news from San Diego?_

 _The other reason I'm going to Strawberry is to see what I can find out about one of Audra's rescue horses. Audra asked me to help with a horse she found at the fair. She's a beautiful mare, but very fearful and she looks like she's been abused. Audra thinks she's a rare Dutch breed that somehow ended up with a family in Strawberry. There was an accident of some sort, and some bandits had her for a while. I think if I can learn what happened to her I might be able to help her settle down._

 _I mentioned going to Strawberry when I got in last night for dinner, and you wouldn't believe the debate that went on for the rest of the evening. It was something. It does amaze me how much this family of mine can talk about things. Audra wanted to come, of course, and it was decided that Jarrod would come as well. He says he has some papers he wants to file in the courthouse there, but the main reason he's coming is because Audra needs a "armed, able, healthy male family member" to escort her, and I can't disagree with Nick, right now that's not me. I stopped carrying a gun, I'm just too jumpy, but I know that ought to improve, it always has before._

 _I know Audra asked me to work with this mare more for my own good than anything else. I pretend I don't know that, but the truth is, I'm grateful to her for it. I've been feeling not much good for anything these days. I can't keep up with Nick, I'm just too sore and tired, and most days I'm just trying to just push through. Getting my mind and my body out of bed in the morning hasn't been easy. Helping Audra with this horse gives me something to think about outside myself. Inside myself hasn't been such a nice place to be._

 _But I think it's getting better. Even John's got me talking about things way more than I'm used to and it just tires me right out. Yes, Marshal Smith is here at the ranch. I'm sure you want to ask, so I'll tell you, no, he hasn't proposed yet. He says he wants me to help him with his hiring of a whole slew of new deputies. The truth is, Mother asked him to come down from Sacramento because she was worried about me, so now I have the head Fed of the western states making sure I eat and sleep. I guess I should be flattered._

 _It has helped, though. By the time he rode in, I hadn't really eaten or slept for probably days, and the less sleep I got, the more I was either remembering things or having nightmares, day or night, awake or asleep - every sound or smell was setting something off. But Big John rode herd on me for a bit, and as he predicted, I don't feel nearly as crazy as I did a few days ago. I guess Mother was right to call in the Feds._

 _I'm joking, but I want to be feeling strong and more like myself by the time you come home. I'd do just about anything for that. I'm trying to follow orders. John's a good man. He's not going to get me all the way fixed up, that'd be a tall order and he's got other responsibilities. And I'm hoping he'll use his time here to finally propose to Mother. We're all waiting on that, though we haven't starting taking bets yet. You want in?_

 _Rivka, my love, I can't wait to see you. I want to be with you, and talk with you, and take you riding, and kiss you, and hold you, and hear all about San Francisco. I miss you so much._

 _Be safe, be careful. You have my heart and all my love._

 _Heath_

Looking out of a third floor garret window, Rivka tucked her bare feet under her and curled into a worn, cozy, padded chair and held the carefully hand-written pages of the letter close to her chest. Beyond the buildings and hills of San Francisco, the sun was setting over the Pacific Ocean, and from her window she could see a stretch of the water, glittering with red and gold reflections from the fiery clouds above. She looked down at the letter again and sighed, missing him, worrying for him, loving him. Counting the days until she could hold him again.

But it was time to get back to studying. She put the letter aside, resting her hand on it for a brief moment. "Travel safely, my love. Travel safely. I love you." Then she picked up her tea and her textbook, turned up her gas lamp in the growing dusk, and resumed her reading.


	16. Chapter 16 - Patience

Coco fussed and tossed his head a few times, trying to get Nick's attention, or failing that, trying to yank the reins out of his hand. The horse was impatient with their slow pace, especially when the breeze was brisk and cool and the air was so clear. A rabbit scooted into its burrow a good twenty feet off the track, and Coco decided to take exception and shied to the side as if something truly startling had occurred.

"Oh, settle down, Coco, you old coot," Nick scolded the aging gelding. "You know if I let you run the minute you're out of the barn you'd be lame by lunchtime. You think you're warmed up enough? All right, all right -" He leaned forward, giving Coco his head and a nudge with his heels, and they were off.

Nick had to agree with Coco, it was a beautiful morning, and he was happy to let the horse run. He was on his way out to the orchard to supervise the irrigation layout, but he wanted to stop by the north pasture to see what Heath and Audra were up to.

 _Somebody's got to make sure they don't get themselves killed messing with that crazy horse_ , he justified to himself, but he knew that wasn't entirely true. They were leaving for a few days and taking Jarrod with them, and Nick admitted to himself he was going to be lonely without them.

He slowed to a trot and then stopped completely as he came in sight of the pasture. Sombra was standing, calm, with Audra at her head talking to her. Heath was currying her, brushing her back, cleaning her hooves, combing out the unusual wavy hair of her mane and tail and even more unusual long hair of her lower legs. It was hard to believe this was the same horse that couldn't even stand to be touched on her back without shaking violently.

Audra brought her out on the longe line and at her prompt, the horse began circling her at a trot, her high-stepping gait swift and fluid. Groomed to a shine, muscular, and well-fed, the mare was incredibly beautiful, despite the scars that crisscrossed her shoulders and flanks.

Nick looked to see where Heath had gone. He spotted him climbing up bareback on Nike and guiding her to circle side-by-side next to Sombra. After a few minutes, they switched directions, both horses pivoting to canter on the opposite lead.

Nick had noticed, since they'd been back home, that it was a rare moment that Heath felt limber enough to vault up onto his horse as he always used to. More often than not, now, he climbed up the way most riders do, using the stirrups, or in this case, mounting from the pasture fence. Like the limp that hadn't yet gone away, the sight of Heath climbing onto his horse from the fence rail bothered Nick, being concrete reminders of the lingering injuries and weakness that burdened his brother. It just seemed wrong, and it made him feel sad, and angry.

No saddle and no bridle on Nike, Nick also now noticed, shaking his head. Heath was a magician sometimes with horses, that hadn't changed apparently, but Nick hoped Heath would remember that huge black mare damn near killed him the other day. As he watched, they slowed to a walk, Heath keeping a hand in Sombra's back. They stopped, Heath and Audra exchanging some words. Still riding Nike, Heath brought over a saddle blanket and gently laid it over Sombra's back. She snorted briefly, laying her ears back. Audra kept talking to her, while Heath deliberately adjusted the blanket and leaned his weight on her back, wanting her to acclimate to the sensation. Once she seemed comfortable again, Audra had her circle a few more times, and then Heath dismounted and brought over a cinch.

 _This all takes way more patience than I'd ever have_ , Nick realized, as he watched his two siblings step-by-step increase the mare's tolerance for the handling and her trust in her handlers. Once they had placed and removed the blanket and cinch a few times, and Sombra appeared to become unconcerned and even bored with the process, Heath moved on to the saddle. He brought Nike over first, tacking her up right next to Sombra. Then Audra brought over her gray gelding and did the same on the other side. Heath carefully then saddled Sombra and slipped a hackamore bridle over her head, looping the rope reins loose over the horn of the saddle. He tightened her cinch another notch, and Sombra swung her big head around to nudge Heath as he stood between her and Nike. He chuckled and patted her neck.

"Yeah, big girl, no one likes that much."

He mounted Nike, and Audra got up on her gray, and keeping Sombra close between them, they took her through her paces and even some fairly complex patterns, taking turns using the reins of the bitless bridle to give the horse directions. Again they came back around to an easy walk.

Heath looked at Audra as he leaned again on Sombra's saddle, testing how she'd react to his weight. The mare fidgeted slightly, tossing her head. "What do you think? Should I give it a try, or wait? Maybe turn 'em loose to play for a bit?"

"I'd love to start riding her, but it's probably best to give her a break. She did a lot today."

"OK, sis, you're the boss."

They unsaddled all three horses, and watched with a smile as they immediately ran off to play their own game of tag, bucking and galloping and chasing each other, their tails flying like flags. Nick came over. "That's a beautiful sight, I must say. You two have the patience of saints, but it looks like it's paying off."

"I think we'll bring her with us to Strawberry," Audra said. "Heath wanted to travel with a wagon so we can bring Hannah some supplies, and we can bring Sombra on a lead line."

"Yeah, we haven't figured out yet how to get her stabled. She still goes crazy when we try to bring her into a stall," Heath commented. "Wish I knew why."

"Well if anyone can figure it out, it'll be you two," Nick said. He turned from watching the horses to look at his brother and sister. "You two and Jarrod be careful traveling, you hear me? If I didn't have so much to do this month I'd –"

"I know, Nick, you'd come along to keep an eye on things," Heath agreed, nodding seriously, still looking out at the pasture. "It's a big job you have, keepin' us all out of trouble. I don't know how you bear up under it some days." He glanced sidelong up at Nick, keeping a straight face even as Audra started to giggle.

"All right, all right, that's just –" Nick began to counter.

Audra interrupted him. "Nick, seriously though, I'm counting on you to keep an eye on Mother and that marshal and make sure he doesn't – doesn't – make a mess, or something. Make sure he behaves himself!"

Nick and Heath both suppressed a laugh, knowing it wouldn't help to make light of her worry.

"It'll be fine, Audra," Nick said, doing his big-brother best to reassure her. "I'll be here to make sure Mother is okay and they're behaving themselves. Marshal Smith adores our mother, that's very clear, and he is an honorable man. It will be fine, don't worry."


	17. Chapter 17 - Requiem

_Life and death alike come out of the East:  
Life as tender as young grass,  
Death as dreadful as the sight of clotted blood._

 _I shall go back into the darkness,  
Not to dream but to seek the light again._

 _I shall go by paths, mayhap,  
On roads that wind around the foothills  
Where the plains are bare and wild  
And the passers-by come few and far between._

 _I want the night to be long, the moon blind,  
The hills thick with moving memories,  
And my heart beating a breathless requiem  
For all the dead days I have lived._

 _When the Dawn comes—Dawn, deathless, dreaming—  
I shall will that my soul must be cleansed of hate,  
I shall pray for strength to hold children close to my heart,  
I shall desire to build houses where the poor will know shelter, comfort, beauty.  
And then may I look into a woman's eyes  
And find holiness, love and the peace which passeth understanding._

 _William H.A. Moore  
"It Was Not Fate"_

The few days of sunshine had warmed the moist earth of the valley. The cold, heavy air of the mountain peaks rolled over that inviting, fertile bed and laid itself down to rest once more in new blankets of thick fog. Heath carried out the last of the supplies for Hannah and loaded them in the buckboard. As he worked, he kept his eyes to the east, watching as the ponderous mist moved over the ground; occasional breaks in the gray would reveal glimpses of the snow fields of the Sierras, blinding white in the rising sun, and the vivid foothills and lower peaks rising out of the fog. Heath expected they would not have to ride long before their path into the hills would carry them above the ground-clouds.

He had saddled Nike for the trip. He considered bringing Charger, but thought better of having a rowdy young stallion along when they were trying to work with a spooky mare. Nike had a consistently calming effect on Sombra. Jarrod would be riding his chestnut gelding. Jingo was strong and steady, and Heath had never seen him show bad manners with beast or human. Heath wondered at times whether that was the result of Jingo's excellent breeding, or of Jarrod's civilizing influence. Audra had decided she would drive the wagon, and bring Sombra on a lead line. She insisted on packing the saddle and hackamore for Sombra.

"Of course I'd love to be able to ride her back home, wouldn't you?" she insisted over Jarrod's questions. "And at the very least, we can keep on getting her used to it again."

After some thought, Heath decided to be practical and bring his rifle and sidearm and stow them in the wagon, keeping the longbow and arrows in his saddle scabbard. He was restless and jumpy as he finished packing and looked for his brother and sister to arrive. His eyes were drawn back to the east again _,_ realizing he was anxiously scanning the grayness for threats, moving shadows, violent men _. It's this damned fog again,_ he thought, irritated with himself. _I need to keep busy._

He decided he'd bring Sombra over from where she was tied alongside the new barn, to start her getting used to being tethered to the wagon. Still, he felt the moving walls of cloud closing around him, advancing and retreating like a living thing, the shifting, flowing grayness yanking at his mind with hints and fragmented images. Sand storms, dust storms, sandstone quarries full of mud, mud flowing in the rain down the streets of Strawberry, mud flowing down into the mines. Mud tracked on the back porch of Uncle Matt's hotel.

 _"You filthy little mutt. Look at this porch. Did you track this muck all the way into the kitchen?"_

Heath winced, his shoulders tense. He pushed himself away from the wooden side of the wagon and started walking to the barn, one hand coming up to the back of his head to rub at the remembered pain. He could feel Matt's hands on his 7-year-old body as though it were happening right then, picking him up by his hair and one leg and throwing him back up onto the porch to beat some respect into him with his fists. The surge of fear ( _he could kill me, he's drunk, I can smell it, he's gonna kill me this time),_ the pain of broken bones _,_ and his helpless child's anger filled his throat to choking and he had to fight not to lose his breakfast. Swallowing back the nausea and the desire to run and hide, he kept walking, determined to get focused back on what he was doing.

 _Why am I remembering this_ _ **now**_ _, for God's sake, just stop, please, just stop_

He reached the side yard of the barn. His heart was racing, and his attention was consumed by fending off the suffocating feeling that seemed to be moving in on him from all directions. Rising mud, rising water.

 _It's just Strawberry. Uncle Matt's not there, he's old, he's gone, he's in prison, just_ _ **stop**_ _it_ , Heath ordered himself. _Hannah is there. And Mama, and Rachael –_

 _Mama. Rachael._ Helpless rage. Yes, even in his suffocating panic, Heath could see that helpless rage did not belong only to the child. It rose up before and behind him, allowing no resolution, no path to a peaceful requiem. Heath didn't sense Sombra becoming restive and fearful as he approached, reacting to his rising anxiety. He didn't look at her, he didn't speak to her. She now wasn't sure she knew who he was or what he intended, and as he reached for the lead line, her ears went back, and her nostrils flared as her head rose defensively.

He grabbed the tether and untied it from the rail.

The lead line jerked powerfully in his hands as the horse squealed and reared up away from him. Reflexively, his grip closed tight on the rope to hold her even before his mind had processed what she was doing. She reared up again, yanking him forward. Unprepared, he staggered and lost his balance, going down on one knee, probably saving his life in the process as giant hooves flashed above his head. He was disoriented, as though he had just sleep-walked from a nightmare right into the path of an oncoming train.

He saw the angry fear in the horse's eyes and knew he was the cause. He let go of the rope.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sombra, I scared you –" He rose, backing away. She lunged forward, and he stumbled backward, falling to the ground against the side of the barn. "I'm sorry, girl, I wasn't thinking, it's OK –" She struck the side of the barn hard enough to crack the boards. He swallowed as he looked sidelong at the rift running through wood planks right by his head. Ears laid back, she moved in closer, tossing her head and keeping him backed up against the wall. He kept talking. "You're OK, Sombra. I'm not gonna hurt you."

She backed up, snorting, but first one ear, then the other, came forward again, attentive. He held out his hand. "C'mon, girl. It's OK. Please. I didn't mean to scare you. It's not you I'm angry at, girl, I wasn't thinking, I'm so sorry -"

She was trembling, but her head came down, and she didn't back further away. She whuffed the air, reaching her nose toward him. She whickered at him, softly, a low questioning sound deep in her chest. Slowly, talking to her, watching her face, he got back to his feet, though he didn't yet move toward her. He waited, then held out his hand again. She stepped toward him and dropped her big head to push her forehead against his chest. He let out the breath he was holding in a sob of relief. Bowing his head over her thick mane, he brought his hands up to stroke her neck, and spoke quietly to her as his own heartbeat slowed. He felt her shaking stop. "I'm sorry you were so scared, girl. We're OK, you're safe, and we're just getting ready to go for a walk in the hills." As he straightened up, she nudged him again, gently, but hard enough to push him back against the warm, piney planks of the barn wall. He smiled and obliged her request by scratching her again behind her ears.

"My God, Heath, are you OK?!"

Surprised, he looked up to see his whole family arriving to the barn, having witnessed the whole event, with John out front clearly ready to shoot the horse if necessary.

"Yeah…uh, yes - yes, I'm fine, we're fine," he stammered, now bothered that he hadn't even been aware of their approach. It was as if he kept going periodically deaf and blind to what was actually going on around him, and that was no good. _That_ had to stop somehow, though he wasn't sure how to get a handle on it. Trying to put that worry aside for now, he looked at Audra. "I'm sorry, sis. It was my fault. I came over to get her, and I was distracted and jumpy, and I scared her. I wasn't paying attention. We're OK," he added, appealing to John to stand down.

John lowered his rifle, but his eyes remained vigilant. Victoria approached to stand beside John, looking relieved that Heath was unharmed. She seemed to have confidence in Heath's belief that the danger was past, as did Audra, who came over to walk Sombra to the wagon. Jarrod looked concerned, but also appeared to be willing to accept it, for the moment, until there was evidence to the contrary. Not so Nick, who paced, hands on hips, looking ready to clobber either the horse, or Heath, or both, he couldn't tell which.

"Nick, it was my fault. It's no different than all the mustangs we've handled – except for her size – you know as well as I do you can't go handling these animals unless you're calm yourself, right? How many times have I heard you tell the hands that? It was my mistake, Nick."

"Seems you're making a lot of those lately," Nick shot back, then regretted it when he caught the flash of pain in Heath's eyes. "Well, I mean, maybe –" He tried to think of something to say to soften his words, but Heath interrupted him.

"Ain't no maybe about it, Nick. I am. You're right." He looked over at Audra, then back at his brothers, his expression resigned and somewhat stern. "That's why we have you coming along, Jarrod, right?" Then he tried to smile. "Well, that, and also for your charming company."

"I'm not as blunt as Nick, that's true, but I have to agree this is not a mistake I'd expect from you, Heath," Jarrod said, seriously. "What is it?"

Heath seemed to be searching for a way to answer that question.

"Seems like you're still having some trouble keeping your eye on the pine cones, Heath," John commented.

Jarrod and Nick both looked confused as Heath gave a short laugh, apparently understanding this mysterious statement.

"You sure got that right, John," he said, shaking his head. He looked up east again. "Seems I need to keep practicing."


	18. Chapter 18 - Dies Irae

A breeze had come up as the sun rose higher, and Heath was happy to see gaps appearing in the dense banks of fog. His nerves were still jangling with the echoes of his Uncle Matt's sudden intrusion into his mind this morning. Something was different in him now, had been since probably September. It was as though the brutal, battering months in Nevada had gradually ripped holes in the rough canvas tent within which his mind sheltered. Vigilance had always been needed to keep present and past in their proper places, but now memories intruded with every gust of wind or change in weather, tearing the gaps bigger with each passing storm.

It was no surprise that Strawberry would bring some childhood thoughts of his mother's violent, unhappy half-brother, who would avenge his frustrations and failures upon Heath's body whenever he managed to corner the boy alone. But even when small, Heath could see the source of Matt's violence lay within the man's own weakness. This understanding helped Heath keep his heart safe, those times when he couldn't run, duck, or hide well enough to stay clear of his fists.

That's not to say that Matt didn't leave a brand on Heath's spirit. As a small boy he knew Matt could have killed him - in fact he almost did on a few occasions - and so Heath learned at a very young age what it was to have Death look you close in the eyes and take your measure; learned Death could reach out and grab you even on a fine sunny day coming home from fishing. He felt rage, but he could let it go. He could let it be washed away in the love of his mother, and Aunt Rachael, and Hannah, just as they washed away the blood and dirt on his skin. Even times when a memory of his uncle would intrude unbidden, what always remained was that love.

But then, last year, Matt and his wife Martha murdered Rachael. They had torn her from him when the earth was still dark over his mother's grave. What Heath had seen moving in the fog this morning (and what Sombra had seen moving in him) was a rage that he had not even begun to wash away. He had fled from it last year, handed it to Jarrod and ran, truth be told. But there it was waiting for him just up the trail. Tattered and ripped up as he was, it seemed it was time for him to ride up and meet it.

Heath snapped out the canvas tarp that would cover the supplies in the wagon, struggling a bit to tether the corners in the freshening breeze. Nick watched for a moment, wanting to help, wondering if it would be unwelcome. Decided he didn't care.

"Heath."

"Yeah, Nick."

"Lemme hold that for you while you tie it down."

"Thanks."

"Listen - before you go, I just want to make sure you know something." The loaded wagon between them, Nick looked across at Heath as he continued working. "I've said some harsh things –"

Heath glanced over at him. "You were right, Nick. You say what you think. I'm not asking you to pull your punches." He turned his attention back to lashing down a barrel.

"It's not that - though I know I could express myself more gracefully. It's what I didn't say."

Heath stopped what he was doing, though he kept his eyes down.

Nick scowled. "I'm no good at this. I wish I could talk like Jarrod sometimes. Listen, Heath, you know I love you. Right?" Heath glanced at him again, a slight amused smile on his face. "I get mad because I worry, I want you to get healthy, and I see you being stubborn and too hard on yourself. It's not right. I absolutely meant what I said in the barn - I'd never treat an animal the way you been treating yourself, and neither would you."

"I get that, Nick –"

"I know what you did to get me and Jarrod safely away from that monster in Nevada. I know you're still paying a price for that."

"You would've done the same for –"

Nick huffed in frustration and strode around to the other side of the wagon. "I'm not finished." A little surprised and worried now, Heath turned to face him. "Here's the part that I think you don't get. The part I haven't been saying but you need to hear. It's not just what you did in Nevada."

Nick reached out and put a hand on the back of Heath's neck, pulling him a little closer to look him in the eyes.

"Heath, I trust you. I know you don't feel like you can trust yourself right now. But even with all that you're trying to hold up under, and whatever battle is going on in your head, Audra is right, you have the best sense of direction of anyone I know. And – I need you. I'm trying not to complain about not having you out there doing twice your share, but believe me, I'm feeling it. But even gimpy as you are – I need your _head_. Not just your muscle. Y'know?"

"My head's been too all-overish to be worth much." Heath countered, skeptically. "Twice my share, huh?" He looked up at Nick, thoughtful. "You know you're going to regret admitting that, don't you."

"I look forward to it, little brother."

Heath was silent for a moment looking down at the coiled up the rope in his hands. Took a breath. "Thanks, Nick."

"Anytime, Heath. And don't think I won't whup you again if I see you being stupid."

"I look forward to it, big brother."

Nick pulled Heath into a hug. Sitting by John in the surrey, Victoria watched and smiled. "Oh, good. Nick would probably be insufferable the next few days if he didn't get some of that off his chest before Heath left."

* * *

Victoria leaned back into John's arms and sighed, as they sat in the shade of the surrey and watched the wagon and three travelers ascend out of sight up the trail. Nick had been first to leave, heading back out to the orchard.

"I know they'll take good care of each other," she said.

"That's a blessing," he agreed.

"I'd like to meet Grace and her husband – and the new baby," Victoria said, tipping her head back to look at him.

"Oh, Grace has been wanting to meet you. She got it out of me months ago, my first trip back to Sacramento from Nevada. I didn't think I was that obvious, but she knew right away I'd fallen in love, and now she'll hardly talk to me about anything else. Grace was always close with my sister Emily in Stockton, and ever since she found out you and Emily are old friends, well she's been writing with questions…so don't be surprised if she has all kinds of information about you when you meet."

"Yes, we will have to bring our families together, soon," she said smiling up at him. He kissed her, and she leaned her body into his, sliding her hands to caress the back of his neck. She was wearing riding slacks that fitted her curves perfectly, and he explored them happily as he held her close. She pulled back then to look into his eyes for a long moment, a decidedly provocative smile on her lips. "But what am I to do with you in the meantime, John?"

"Oh, Victoria," he whispered. "You look at me like that and you can do whatever you please."

"Do you have any pressing engagements elsewhere today, Marshal?"

"No, ma'am," he said. "I am at your service."

"Good." She picked up the reins. "I had Silas pack up some lunch. I'd intend to make sure you have everything you need at the cabin."

"The only thing that's been missing is you, ma'am." He couldn't take his eyes off her.

She smiled at him, feeling her skin warming from his attention and desire, anticipating, aching for his touch. "I brought dinner too," she said with a wink. She snapped the reins smartly and the horse leaped forward.


	19. Chapter 19 - Lacrimosa

_I am not mad; I would to heaven I were! For then, 'tis like I should forget myself; O, if I could, what grief should I forget!_

 _William Shakespeare_

 _"King John" Act III Scene IV_

* * *

It was not long before their path upward into the foothills brought them above the fog layer and into the clear, noticeably colder air of the high country. Audra shivered and pulled on her wool jacket. She commented on the beauty of the landscape below them; the dissipating mist bright white in the sun, the green of the fields showing through in swaths of emerald, crossed here and there by the veins of sparkling water that fed the valley from the west face of the Sierras. The sounds of those creeks and small rivers dancing downward from the mountains could be heard here and there in the pine-shaded woods that now encompassed their trail.

She was an easy travel companion, Jarrod mused, always had been. Even as a small child, she was happy and curious, her intelligence easily engaged in whatever might be interesting in the journey at hand. She was hardy, and energetic, and her stamina was well-matched to that of anyone else in the family. Indeed, her emotional stamina – that is, her ability to remain positive and pleasant in the face of fatigue and adversity – was remarkable, in Jarrod's opinion. Add to this her talent for conversation, and you had a young woman with whom he was happy to travel just about anywhere.

Audra was not a mindless chatterbox, but as she drove the wagon, she would chat with Sombra, or with Jarrod, or with Heath, or with all three, depending on who had dropped back to ride beside her, the conversations interspersed with adequate and comfortable silences. At the moment, Jarrod was pacing along beside her on Jingo. Heath had trotted a little way ahead along the verge of the path, leaning forward in the saddle. He appeared to be studying the trail, as though he were tracking something. Audra watched him, a small worried frown on her face.

"What's Heath looking at?"

"I don't know, honey. Maybe he's spotted something good for dinner. I hear he's gotten very good with that bow and arrow."

"Maybe. Jarrod, have you met Hannah?"

"Yes."

"How did you get to meet her?"

"I rode up to Strawberry last year to take care of some legal matters after Mother had that run-in with Heath's aunt and uncle. I met her then. Heath asked me to check on her, see if I could do anything to help, now that she was alone."

"Alone?"

"Yes. She had come to live with Leah and Rachael, as I understand it, when Leah became ill. Hannah had always been a part of their family; she would stay with Heath when he was little, when Leah and Rachael had to be at work. She was very poor, had been a slave, I think, though I don't know how or when she made her way to Strawberry. Hannah told me her own little shack had been lost to a wildfire, and in any case she had been all the time with Leah and Rachael when Leah became ill. Then when Rachael died so soon afterward, Hannah was alone.

"The main thing I did for Hannah was to execute Rachael's will. Rachael didn't have much, but she did own the house that Heath was raised in, and it seems once she knew that Heath had found a home with us, she had the foresight to write down that it was to go to Hannah upon her death. So at least Hannah could have that security."

Audra frowned again, looking up the trail at her brother Heath. He was still studying the ground, his familiar form moving in and out of shadow as he skirted the edge of the dark pine forest. She had a very unsettled feeling, a feeling of having missed something important. She sat back, silent, and remembered last year, seeing Heath crying in the barn. Remembered that unfamiliar song, the song that Silas knew and sang for him. She thought about Hannah, and Leah – and Rachael, who owned the house Heath was raised in.

"Jarrod, how did Rachael die?"

Jarrod hesitated, realizing there was much that hadn't been shared with Audra about Victoria's impulsive – and almost disastrous – trip to Strawberry. He tried to be brutally honest with himself as he considered how their family, and he in particular, had "handled things" during those first months after Heath's arrival. Those "things" were weighty: the sins of the revered, mourned father made flesh, in the form of his bastard son on their doorstep; the reality of Leah Thomson, not some faceless harlot but a deeply beloved mother and friend and partner, mourned in her own right; the seemingly inexcusable ignorance of Tom Barkley of the pregnancy he left with Leah when he rode away, never looking back to make _sure_. They had all been so relieved to learn that Tom was unaware of Leah's pregnancy when he left Strawberry. In retrospect, Jarrod thought, as a family, they had seized rather desperately onto this one piece of information – _he didn't know, he didn't know about you, Heath -_ like a floating log that could help them all get through the rapids with their heads above water.

Audra's question, though, brought Jarrod's focus to a dimension of events during those months that had remained obscure. For Audra, the knowledge of Heath's family – their circumstances, their relationships, the manner of Rachael's death – had not been told to her, and the grief that she glimpsed in Heath had no anchor, no context, and was forgotten. Nick knew of Rachael's murder, but he did not care to know or ask further about who she was, just as he did not wish to know anything about Leah. He was still struggling with the huge, irrepressible love he was feeling for his new brother, a love that was slowly, painfully subsuming his feelings of loss and anger at seeing his father diminished to human proportions. In the thick of that collision of forces, Nick did not look outside himself to encompass what had been Heath's family.

Continuing his effort to be brutally honest, Jarrod considered that he too chose ignorance, a more willful and conscious ignorance even than Nick. He had been dispatched to Strawberry by his mother to "see if anything could be done legally" to bring Matt and Martha Simmons to justice for killing Rachael Caulfield. Her tone and mood in assigning him this mission was one of tying up the loose ends of an ugly business transaction, an unpleasant affair but one in which the Barkleys had come out on top. He, willfully, had mostly kept himself contained in that attitude.

Jarrod had the most sympathy for his mother's blindness in this process, struggling as she was with a betrayal far more grievous than what her children were experiencing. She at least talked to Heath about Leah and took some time to think about who she was. Still – Jarrod knew that Heath was strikingly like his father, in his face, his eyes, the way he moved, the way he sat a horse. Jarrod was sure, on a gut level, his mother was captured by this embodiment of the young man she married, because Heath had a bit of that father effect on Jarrod as well. Jarrod admired his mother deeply for taking that visceral connection, that reminder of her lost love, and choosing to see it as a blessing, the gift of her husband's son. In Victoria, he could see her fighting toward higher ground, wanting to do the right thing, wanting to understand, but only strong enough to take it so far, at least then.

In order to complete that task as assigned to him, Jarrod had to gather information about Heath's family, about Rachael, and about that very unpleasant couple the Simmons. Jarrod acknowledged now he had had the best opportunity of anyone in the family to see truly where Heath came from, and understand what he might be feeling. Over the course of several trips to Strawberry, Jarrod had executed his instructions to the best of his legal ability. He steered the local sheriff and the district attorney to the information they needed to convict Matt and Martha. He treated Hannah with great respect and made sure she was secure in her home. He stayed to see Martha become enraged during her interrogation and confess angrily to murdering Rachael and attempting to murder Mrs. Barkley and Heath, taking full credit because her husband Matt was a useless, weak, loser, a half-a-man who didn't have the brains or the fortitude to do what needed to be done to get out of this dead town. Her ranting brought her a life sentence in prison, and exonerated Matt down to a conviction as an accessory with a possibility of early parole. Feeling his duty done, Jarrod was happy to head home.

Jarrod's first trip up to Strawberry, however, Heath came with him to facilitate. He seemed extraordinarily tense, but willing to help Jarrod get started on what he needed to do there. Heath wanted to see Hannah, and to make sure that Jarrod understood and would take care of her affairs. Heath and Hannah disappeared for a period of time into the woods – in retrospect, Jarrod thought Heath was probably visiting his mother's grave, and Rachael's. There were a few interactions in town that reminded Jarrod of what he had observed in Stockton and on their own ranch. They met many folks that knew Heath, and were warm and respectful. Then there was the background chorus of characters offering insults, threats, and disrespect, just as in Stockton, though here in Strawberry there was the added spice of small town meanness, from people who had been kicking mud at Heath since he was a baby.

At Hannah's house, Jarrod saw a few items in the spare but clean common room that he imagined had been a part of Heath's childhood. There was a small bookshelf with a set of schoolbooks bound in blue-green leather, and a low table beside it that held a chess set. Hannah talked about how they were together as a family, but Jarrod didn't really take it in; in his mental picture, there was Leah, the mother, and then these two family friends. Hannah also talked about Matt and his fists, and Jarrod felt anger. When the time came, he did what he could to make sure Matt went to prison.

Heath didn't stay long, just overnight, and seemed practically to flee back down to the valley once Jarrod had what he needed to get started. Jarrod attributed his urgency at the time (if he attributed it to anything) to an understandable desire to get away from the nastiness of the town, and perhaps some embarrassment at having his new brother witness Heath's former poverty and his unsavory homicidal relatives. Heath certainly hadn't ever wanted Victoria to set foot in this town, and he seemed pained that Jarrod now was obliged to roll up his sleeves and deal with the place in such detail.

Jarrod was beginning to see Heath's distress during that trip now in a very different light. In almost any other circumstance, over the past year and a half, Jarrod had seen Heath drawn like a moth to the pursuit of justice. He couldn't help himself, it often seemed, even if it didn't directly affect him. But that affair with Matt and Martha Simmons – it was as if Heath didn't even want to look directly at them, as if that pathetic couple bore the writhing heads of Medusa on their shoulders.

It wasn't distaste, or embarrassment, or shame, or even the verbal abuse of the remaining residents of Strawberry that sent Heath back out of town so fast. It was the overwhelming grief of a boy who had lost both of his parents in the space of a month, one to poverty and illness, and one murdered at the hands of a couple who had been a scourge of his childhood. Jarrod was pretty sure Heath had seen this slim opportunity to seize upon Jarrod and have him deal with Matt and Martha, because Heath couldn't do it himself. He would be lost in rage and madness. It was too much. Heath chose instead to grab onto his lawyer brother just as desperately as the Barkleys were grabbing on to their own illusions, as a way to get through the rapids without drowning in sorrow. Heath could let them all believe that what mattered was that blessed ignorance - _He didn't know about you, Heath –_ because it helped the whole family float safely a little further downstream. But Jarrod also understood that ignorance is not innocence, not in this circumstance, not for a grown man who already had fathered two children. It truly was not a consolation, and Heath likely never saw it as such. Jarrod imagined that to Heath, learning his way into this new family, the question of Tom's ignorance was a relatively minor eddy in the torrent of grief and loss and anger he was struggling to survive. And so time passed, and they did make it a bit further downstream as a family, though at the moment Jarrod was feeling that so much had been left unseen and unacknowledged, he wondered if his family and Heath were even on the same river.


	20. Chapter 20 - A Shade of Death

_My life is poured out like water, my bones are broken.  
_ _My heart is like wax, melting within me.  
_ _My strength has dried up like sunbaked clay.  
_ _My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.  
_ _You have brought me down to lay in the dust of death.  
_ _For dogs have surrounded me;  
_ _A mob of evildoers has surrounded me  
_ _And seized my hands and my feet.  
_ _I can count all my bones  
_ _They gloat, they stare at me;  
_ _Deliver my soul from the sword, my life from vicious dogs  
_ _Snatch me from the lion's jaws_

 _Psalm 22_

* * *

Heath drew Nike to a halt by the side of the sun-dappled trail, staring down at the tracks that had disturbed the dry layers of dust and rust-colored pine needles. The writing upon the ground had begun as a murmur, a muttering, but had now become a drumming chant of danger. He felt heavy, the earth herself pulling on him, drawing him down to swallow him, as though the sorrow and anger and thrumming fear that was flaring inside him was a painful canker she could thus snuff out and assuage. He was so tired. He was tired of the constant battle: fighting for safety, fighting to regain some kind of control over his mind, fighting to keep the war in his head from overrunning everything around him. There was a distant rumble of thunder, though no hint of rain. The earth was sere, dusty, and spoke to him of violence to come.

Now Jarrod and Audra were in danger.

There was that dropping, sinking nausea, like losing his grip on a rope, and he swallowed in a dry throat. He stared at the ground, sunk in a memory of fever and delirium.

 _He was surrounded by darkness and pain and hot metal, the walls closing in on him, burning his skin. The very air he breathed scorched his lungs. He heard a laugh, and footsteps in sand and gravel as Risley slowly circled the iron box._

 _"It looks like my game is finished out here, Barkley. Maybe they'll hang me. But you won't get to see it." Laughter receding as he walked away. "Too bad no one has the key to get you out of there. I don't think they even know where you are."_

"Jarrod, how did Rachael die?"

"Audra, honey, there's a lot we didn't share with you last year, about Heath and his family, and what happened with Mother in Strawberry. I'm kinda wishing now I had shared what I learned with you, because – well, for myself, I didn't do much with what I learned. I can't say I really tried to see more than what was right on the surface. I didn't really try to understand where Heath came from, or see what he had lost. And I think, maybe, had you known, you wouldn't have let that go. You would've seen more with your heart."

Audra caught her breath, remembering Silas. _I'm so sorry about your Aunt Rachael, Mr. Heath, so sorry –_

"I think, though, than rather than give you pieces of information, I'll wait to answer that question until we can all three talk. I'm not trying to put you off," he added quickly, seeing her scowl at him. "Truly I think it would be better to hear it from Heath, and there's a lot that I'd like to learn as well."

"Oh, all right," she said, finally. "What is he looking at way up there? He's just staring at the ground."

"I don't know, honey –" Jarrod trailed off, beginning to worry as he observed his brother strangely motionless in the pine shadows. He was no longer entertaining thoughts of what Heath might catch them for dinner.

 _Lightening flickered far off, followed long after by a rumble of thunder. Here in this dim place where he lay, there was no rain or wind. There was no heat or cold, no pain or hunger or thirst, no love or loss. Voices murmured. They came and went, each time more distant, indistinct. All of those things flashed and moved far away within the storm on the horizon. Fear had returned, though, curling around him like a snake seeking his warmth. He could not remain here. He had to move, choose a direction._

 _Heath strained to hear those distant voices, but their words could not reach him. Passing through that storm front was not his only way out – there were other, easier options. But he knew it was his only way_ back _._ _He searched his mind for some marker to guide him through this trackless place, and wished hopelessly for some easier way home._

 _He was afraid of the thunder, unsure of his strength. He didn't want to suffer, but he wasn't afraid to die, not really. He would have to lay his body down someday. What terrified him was being broken. He was afraid he would fight his way back, only to be crushed by the demons in his head and the mess he seemed to have made of things. And he was deeply afraid to fail the people he loved, afraid they would come to harm, that he would be unable to protect them from the evils that seemed to follow him._

"Heath, what are you looking at?" Jarrod had suggested that Audra keep back with the wagon, while he approached Heath along the verge of the trail so as not to disturb whatever it was he had been examining so closely. Heath didn't respond immediately. "Heath," he said again, gently.

Heath seemed to pull himself back from a long distance away as he turned to answer – and then he looked away again, giving Jarrod the disturbing impression that Heath himself wasn't entirely sure what he had been looking at, or thinking about, for that matter. Heath cleared his throat and started to speak, but hesitated again, his expression uncertain. Jarrod noticed his hand drop reflexively to his empty right hip as his eyes anxiously scanned the forest and trail around them. Reacting to the obvious sense of threat, Jarrod looked around as well and loosened his sidearm in its holster.

"Heath, talk to me. What is it?"

"Jarrod, I don't know if I'm overreacting." He was staring at the ground again as though hoping to find he had been imagining things. He raised his eyes, clearly unable to dismiss his feeling of alarm.

"Just tell me what you're thinking, Heath." He thought Heath looked unutterably weary, almost on the verge of tears. "We're in this together, little brother," he said firmly. "Let's hear it." That seemed to help him focus.

"Jasper."

"Great. Why are you thinking these tracks belong to them?"

"There have been six horses on this trail, but they didn't come up the trail ahead of us the whole way. They came onto the trail from a side canyon several miles back. They're a messy bunch, and I've been noticing the trash alongside the track. But now –" he sighed, shifting in his saddle to look around, "now there's only four horses. One cut off into the woods about 100 yards back, and one cut off to the other side here."

"That it?"

"That's it. That, and the fact that Jasper don't like me much. He was severely disappointed when John made him back down. He _really_ wanted to take me apart."

"Well, I wish you were overreacting, Heath, but I don't think you are." He looked at the terrain surrounding them. "Heath, you know these hills better than anyone. How do you suggest we avoid the ambush that you clearly think Jasper has waiting for us?"


	21. Ch 21 - Between a Rock and a Hard Place

_Animal resistance, the instinct of the male animal when cornered, is no doubt common; but the pure article, courage with eyes, courage with conduct, self-possession at the cannon's mouth, cheerfulness in lonely adherence to the right, is the endowment of elevated characters._

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson_  
 _"Courage"_

"We're in this together, little brother. Let's hear it."

Jarrod's voice seemed to cut through the fog in Heath's mind. It woke him up, so to speak, and when he answered his brother this time, he felt fully back inside himself. He was already intently working through the very question that Jarrod raised: How do we avoid an ambush? Years of hunting, insurgence, reconnaissance and evasion made such strategic thinking almost automatic. He surveyed the area around and behind them, picturing the terrain, the obstacles, possible points of advantage and disadvantage, the added concerns or traveling with a loaded wagon and his little sister. Evasion and escape were his primary goals, if at all possible. He knew he would hunt down and kill Jasper and his crew if that's what he had to do to keep Audra and Jarrod safe, but truly he wanted to find a less bloody resolution.

Beneath this flow of thought ran another current of worry, a problem for which he did not yet have a reliable answer. His way forward seemed inexorably to narrow before him, with lethal gulfs on either side, while his ability to keep himself and his mind on a steady path seemed just as inexorably to be escaping him. It was one thing, this reverberating sense of threat that could overtake him and shake him in its angry fist. It was a problem, but still, it was just fear, and fear and he were old acquaintances. Maybe it was more than _just_ fear – it was fear's big scary older brother perhaps – but nonetheless, Heath had been close neighbors with that family all his life.

This other thing, though – this _going away_. It wasn't just remembering things too much. It wasn't just past events blowing in from outside and creating mayhem. It was the past reaching in and yanking _him_ outside, right out of that tattered old tent of his mind. It seemed sometimes to start with that falling, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach – that was the only warning he had yet identified. This was a problem – a big problem. He felt he hadn't even begun to get his thoughts around what this problem was or what to do about it, but he urgently had to, because they were facing a very real threat, here on this mountain track, and he could not afford to go deaf and blind as had been happening and put his family at risk.

He had spoken some to John about some of the fear and how it could echo in his head. Their talking had helped him feel less crazy, helped him remember this was just a problem to be managed, just like getting his right arm strong again. Keeping his eye on the pine cones. But he hadn't talked about this other thing – this being yanked away. Didn't want to talk about it, for there was a whispering suggestion that nudged at him that this leaving, these absences, were merely evidence that the shelter of his mind was ripped and broken beyond repair, and that there was no pulling those shredded edges back together.

But no matter, really, even if that raspy voice were correct. Maybe this was how he was going to be now: unanchored, open to the weather, soon to fray to threads in the wind and leaving nothing behind but empty tent poles. No matter. Right now he had to deal with Jasper, and he had to keep Jarrod and Audra safe. He needed to nail himself down in the present, because his family needed him. Heath mentally shook himself and focused on Jarrod's question.

"How do you suggest we avoid the ambush that you clearly think Jasper has waiting for us?"

"It may be too late for that," Heath said flatly. "We better let Audra know what's going on." He wheeled Nike around, and the two of them cantered back to the waiting wagon. Audra was watching them intently, on full alert, anticipating trouble.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

 _There's another mistake you just made,_ Heath berated himself. "You could tell there's something wrong."

"Well, of course! You're both looking around, Jarrod's got his hand on his gun – tell me what's going on."

"It's obvious to Audra, and it's obvious to whoever's watching us from that ridge up there," Heath said, gesturing with his eyes, angry at himself. "If I'd been thinking clearer, maybe we could've backtracked without them thinking we're onto the trap – or even before they had eyes on us at all. I should've –"

"Heath, _should've_ is no help. You're not psychic."

" _What_ trap? Will you two please speak plainly?"

Heath explained briefly, and Audra began to look both fearful and enraged that the same men that tortured her horse might now be hunting them. She reached under her seat for her rifle, but Heath stopped her with a gentle touch on her arm. "Wait, sis. Don't wanna throw all our cards on the table – let me think for a sec –" The track upon which they were traveling was at times little more than wagon ruts, though it intermittently widened out into a more respectable dirt road. Heath could see a nice wide stretch just up ahead. Heath knew that it narrowed again quickly into a winding, steep-sided gulch as it approached a ford over the north fork of the Stanislaus River. That gulch would be the place for an ambush, he was sure.

He had already stupidly announced their knowledge of the danger, but if Jasper's scouts thought they were proceeding into the trap anyway, maybe it would lull them into waiting to attack – and maybe it could give him and his brother and sister enough time to get into a better defensive position.

Heath dismounted and walked Nike to the back of the wagon, taking a few seconds to greet and calm Sombra, who was picking up on the rise in tension. Lifting a flap of the canvas, he pulled out his rifle, checked it was loaded, and placed it on top of the wagon cover, and then placed the longbow and arrows from his saddle scabbard alongside it. He buckled on his gun belt and tied the familiar weight of the holster down to his right thigh. His eyes were in constant motion, scanning the woods around him. He walked Nike back up front.

"Audra, climb up on Nike here. I want you mounted, in case there's need to beat a speedy retreat. Understand?" She nodded. He felt he needed to reiterate this point. He looked both Audra and Jarrod in the eye. "Jarrod, she's the reason you're here. If I say git, you go, _both_ of you. Fast as you can back down to Vallecito and don't stop for nothin'. I'll be right behind you." Once Audra was settled on Nike, he pulled the rifle from under the driver's seat, checked it, and handed it to her. "We can't turn the cart around here anyway, even if we wanted to. It's too narrow. They'd be down on us before we could even get moving away down trail. Need a more defensible spot where I can cover your retreat and - I hope - make them see it's way too costly for them to come after us. So - I figure - we'll move on up ahead like we're planning to march into that gulch ambush they have set. Then I'll turn the cart quick up there where it's wide. You two hang just behind where you'll have shelter in those rocks from whoever he's got up on the ridges on either side of us. You see it?" Heath studied their faces, wanting to make sure they understood. "Don't you worry, sis," he said convincingly. "We'll sting these guys and they'll be off runnin'. They don't wanna work for nothin', and they certainly don't like being shot at."

Heath met Jarrod's eyes, saw understanding there. Jarrod had been a soldier. He knew the uses of bravado before a firefight, and he didn't argue with what Heath was doing. Jarrod pulled his own rifle out, checked it, and laid it across the pommel of his saddle.

As Heath climbed up into the driver's box, Jarrod found himself noticing that his brother suddenly seemed about as "nailed down" and clear-headed as he had in weeks. He was glad, certainly, for this semblance of clarity, though it filled him with sadness as he considered the cause.

Jarrod had some understanding of why some fellow veterans could never go back their lives after the war. They went instead to seek other wars, one after another, usually until the odds beat them and they finally were killed. A battlefield was the only place where what they felt made sense; where _they_ made sense.

These past months, in himself, Heath was _always_ at war, his mind and body battered with the drumming of violence, both his own, and others'. And then he came home, but not really. Jarrod understood now why he kept feeling that they had left Heath behind in Nevada. He tried to imagine carrying that merciless, wind-whistling, mud-soaked battlefield within, yet trying to feel a part of what must seem to be a utopian world of love and safety and future dreams. How would one reconcile it?

Understanding took on substance and form, slowly, like a figure approaching him through the fog: The Red Horseman was back. Heath was _in_ war, again, in this moment. The battlefield within him fit the world outside; there was nothing to reconcile. He was anchored, yes, but in a harbor he never wanted; he was, sadly, at home in a place he never wanted to call his own. It seemed a far too high a price to pay.


	22. Chapter 22 - Tipping Point

The November sky shifted with no hesitation from the bright blue of afternoon to a blazing red-orange of approaching dusk. The flaming autumnal colors were redoubled and flaunted by the far off thunderclouds that had rumbled here and there over the valley. Up in the mountains, the temperature was dropping just as quickly and steadily as the sun, arcing down to the southwestern horizon.

"Beautiful sunset," Victoria said contentedly, wrapped snugly in John's arms as they relaxed on the warm hay bales that had been stacked alongside the cabin. The bales glowed gold in the light and smelled like autumn sunshine. John breathed it in and gazed at the woman in his arms.

"Yes, beautiful," he said. "The sunset looks beautiful on you."

She laughed up at him, that low, lovely, husky laugh that he realized was yet one more thing he found irresistible about her.

"You're a smooth talker, Marshal Smith. Though I'm happy to discover that you back up what you say." She felt as though her body, her skin, her sense of touch had started waking up from the moment he had ridden out of the fog and up to her door and was now coming fiercely alive after years of hibernation. The afternoon they had just spent together left her body feeling a little sore but humming, buzzing, pleasantly awake and hungry. He was, as she had suspected, a wonderful lover. He was patient, attentive, and creative, and the passion he clearly felt for her was arousing in its own right. She reached up and pulled him to her for another kiss.

Their lunch had been a bit delayed - in fact much delayed - as the couple had no thoughts of food when they arrived at the cabin. They were finally, truly, alone together for the first time. The brief ride over, John just watched her drive, saying not much and nothing of consequence. He just gazed at her. One hand gently caressed her back between her shoulder blades, occasionally rising to play with a tendril of her hair or the collar of her shirt, until she felt she might just burst into flames. By the time they pulled up to the cabin, she was a woman on fire.

John reached up to help her down from the buggy, aching to carry her directly to bed and make love to her for hours. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked down into his yearning eyes.

"John," she said.

"Victoria. I love you. I am completely and hopelessly at your service. Please say you'll be mine. Please."

She smiled upon him and reached with one hand to stroke his hair. "Oh, yes, John. Yes, I love you. And I will be yours – presuming you stop just standing there looking at me." She laughed that husky laugh and put her arms around his neck as he effortlessly picked her up and held her close against him. She brought her lips close to his ear. "No fooling around now, Marshal. Get movin'."

So lunch was forgotten, though they did eventually rise from bed to assemble a late picnic by the hay bales where they could watch the sunset. John was in a bit of a daze, and had to laugh at the rather young-man libido this fine lady was conjuring from this not-so-young-man. He realized, though, that while he'd encountered a passing attraction or two over the years, no woman, until now, had approximated what he had felt for Caroline. Victoria had ignited something in him that he never thought to feel again, and his body, clearly, was more than ready to participate in expressing the devotion he felt for her.

Their peaceful picnic was soon to be interrupted, however, as they saw two horses approaching at a brisk gallop. As they neared, John leaned forward and squinted, shading his eyes from the sunset.

"Is that Frank?" he wondered out loud. "I think it's Frank Sawyer," he said to Victoria, "and Sheriff Madden."

"I think you're right."

The two lawmen pulled up in front of the cabin. Madden touched his hat brim, looking slightly discomfited, but trying to hide it. "Afternoon, Mrs. Barkley, Marshal."

Frank couldn't help himself. "John, Ma'am, I'm glad to see you two got a little time to yourselves. It was long overdue, if you ask me. Now, just so you know," he said, leaning down and speaking in confidential tones to Victoria, "I am also registered as a justice of the peace. Y'know, in case you want to make an honest man of him."

Madden looked for a moment as if he might faint. Victoria laughed. "Frank, I might just take you up on that."

Frank grinned widely and winked at her. John rolled his eyes and sighed. "Behave yourself, Frank. What's up? Surely you didn't gallop out here just to offer your services as a JP."

"Well, no, unfortunately." He grew serious. "John, you remember you wired me to let me know to keep an eye out for that swamp rat Jasper and his crew?"

"Yep. What'd you hear?"

"Well apparently they started out in my direction, so I was out seeing if I could hunt them down. They're wanted for plenty in my territory. I checked in with Madden here, and he let me know he got wind they had stolen some horses near Sonora and were heading fast overland in the direction of the Barkley spread."

Madden nodded. "I was thinking they might cause trouble for you here, ma'am, and thought I could catch 'em with those horses. I ran into an old prospector said he was pretty sure he saw them camped near your northeast boundary. I know you keep some of your good breeding stock up that way. The prospector, though, he thought he saw them cutting east up into the hills this morning."

"Up into the hills," Victoria said, looking at John.

"You're thinking they're tracking after Heath and Jarrod and Audra on their way up to Strawberry."

"God, I hope not."

"I wouldn't put it past 'em," John said to Frank. "Jasper would've killed Heath with a song on his lips a few days ago. And it didn't seem like he had anything else to keep him busy."

"They take the southeast trail up to Strawberry? Through Vallecito?"

"That was their plan."

"John, you wanna ride with me, see if we can catch up? Make sure there's no trouble? That way Madden here can head back to Stockton."

John looked at Victoria. She nodded. "You should go."

"Where's Nick?" he asked.

"He wasn't going to be back tonight – he planned to check on the herd they're bringing down from the summer pasture, after he left the orchard. I could have one of the hands head out to look for him, at least so he'll know where you've gone. He's going to want to head up with you, but it'll be full dark by the time we find him."

xxxxxxx

"Dark soon," Heath muttered to Jarrod as he leaned forward to adjust a harness strap across the carriage horse's haunches. The gelding stomped a little impatiently and flicked his tail. Heath couldn't help but grin at his fussing. "Settle down, Digger, you're acting like a colt instead of the middle-aged workhorse you are. Though that is what we love about you."

Jarrod nodded, his eyes on the woods up ahead. "Going to lose the light quickly this time of year. Not good if we get pinned down, but it could help if we make a run for it." He turned in the saddle to Audra, a squeezing fist of fear in his gut. _If anything happened to you, my little one, anything –_ Jarrod reached intentionally for the anger that came rising up inside him at the thought. Breathed it in deep and used it to push the terror down and away.

Audra met his eyes. She knew Jarrod was in an agony of worry about her, as was Heath. She was plenty scared herself. Still, she trusted her brothers, and she would follow their lead and do what needed to be done. If she needed to fall apart into a wet mess of emotions, well, she could just plan to do that later. She gave small smile to Pappy, wanting to communicate all this to him. She saw him take a breath and steel himself to the needs of the moment, as she had seen him do so many times before.

They both nodded to Heath to indicate they were ready. Heath snapped the reins, and Digger obliged with a brisk trot as they approached the rock outcroppings that bottlenecked the trail and would give Jarrod and Audra some shelter. Beyond was a wide, flatter stretch of road. As soon as he was a wagon-length past the narrows, Heath pulled up on the rear brake of the wagon and asked Digger to go hard left. The gelding's speed and willingness kept the front of the wagon moving so that it nearly pivoted on its back wheels. Heath was aiming to come completely about and be pointing back down the trail by the time the bandits responded, but he was still mostly broadside when gunfire erupted from multiple spots above and around them. Heath ducked and rolled for cover off the driver's box, staying low and popping up only once to grab his rifle and bow and arrows off the canvas cover.

 _Multiple shooters_? Way more than there should have been. _There should have been only two_. Heath had been expecting the other four to be waiting in position further up the trail. He figured they'd be drawn into the fight as soon as they heard the gunfire, but Heath had been hoping he'd have time to disable the two stingers waiting for them here, or at least suppress them enough so Jarrod and Audra could get clear, before the four up ahead could backtrack and really outnumber them. Now it seems he had miscalculated. He hadn't gotten a good glimpse yet, but it seemed to his ears that there were at least four if not all six gunmen positioned above and ahead of them.

 _Above and ahead, but not behind us, not yet._ Out of the corner of his eye, a little ways up the ridge, Heath saw horizontal movement shaking the brush between the pines. _We did make them spring the trap sooner than they wanted, there's that, at least. But they're gonna try to close us in._ He tracked the rustling threat with his rifle and fired. The movement staggered, stopped, and became visible as one of Jasper's rustlers rolled lifeless down the slope.

Heath swept his eyes over the high ground on either side of them, hunting for more targets, then looked to Jarrod and Audra, both of whom seemed to be staying under their cover on either side of the trail and returning fire whenever they saw opportunity. They had a better view of the shooters' positions than he, but it was clear to all three of them he couldn't move to them, and they couldn't yet make a break for it. Bullets pockmarked the ground that lay between them, throwing up small geysers of dust and gravel.

Heath knew his first priority was suppressing the shooters that had a line of fire on Jarrod and Audra's path of escape.

"Jarrod!" he called. "How many can you see? And where are the shooters that are covering the trail?"

"I see four, Heath - there are two up high and to the right, in that rock face where the track bends out of sight. They've got the best bead on our back trail."

"There's five," Audra said. "Jarrod, look – there's another one moving –"

"I can't see him from here."

Heath followed Audra's line of sight, and had a sick feeling as he understood what was going to have to happen. He couldn't see the gunman either from where he was, and they couldn't let him get behind their position.

"Audra," Heath said to her, feeling as though he had become the voice of a nightmare. "Audra, I can't see him either. You're going to have to shoot him."

With no hesitation, she sighted her rifle on the man working his way toward them. Jarrod saw her brow furrow, her breathing slow. Her eyes narrowed, focused and steady down the barrel of her weapon. He saw a silent tear roll down her cheek, and felt as though he might weep himself. "It's OK, honey. I'm right here. Heath's right. Shoot him." He spoke softly, wanting to steady her without breaking her concentration.

She fired, and the man spun and fell, dropping his weapon and clutching the right side of his chest. She let out her breath in a sob.

"Is he down?" Jarrod asked. She nodded. "Is he moving?"

"A little," she answered, her voice shaky. "Hardly at all."

"Ok, honey. You did good. We're gonna get out of here very soon. Now just keep your eyes open and your head down, ok?"

She nodded again and wiped her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she chambered another round into her rifle.

Sombra was tethered to the far rear corner of the wagon. She had begun to fight to get loose as soon as the gunfire began, her increasingly frantic efforts now rocking the wagon alarmingly. Heath tried to get to her to cut her free, fearing not just for her safety, but his and Digger's if she tipped the wagon over onto him. He was driven back by bullets splintering and whining past his head. He swore as pain in his left arm and a burning smell told him where he'd been grazed by that last fusillade.

Sombra hauled again on her tether, the loaded buckboard groaning in protest. Digger whinnied and moved anxiously, frightened by the gunfire as well as the sideways torqueing of the wagon to which he was harnessed. Heath tried to calm him as he moved in a crouch back towards the driver's box. "Easy, Digger, that's a boy, easy –" Keeping his head down, he reached blindly for the toolbox under the seat, finding and grabbing a small hatchet before gunfire forced him to drop again. He saw the wheels on the far side of the wagon lift a few inches in the air, and then slam back down.

 _If I don't make more of a dent in these shooters, I'm gonna be stuck choosing between runnin' out from cover and getting shot to pieces, or staying here and getting squashed under a cart full of supplies. I've done that before, and there ain't no cushy mud pit underneath to save me this time. I'd be crushed for good and certain._ Checking again quickly on his brother and sister, Heath elbowed his way further forward, wincing as the buckboard lifted and crashed again. Leaning against the front wheel, he glanced around the driver's box. He still didn't have a line on the two positioned up high, but he had spotted another guy in motion, trying to get to higher ground. Before he could bring his sights around, he heard Jarrod fire, and that man was down and yelling. Heath was not surprised to see that none of the remaining bandits made a move to help their comrade.

"That's three. Jarrod, those two up high still in the same position?"

"Yes. They haven't moved. I'd they're 50 feet up, about 50 yards away, at your 1 o'clock, side-by-side. The third man has got himself a nice roost in the rocks. I'd say he's only 15 feet up, 40 yards out, your 10 o'clock. I've been able to get him to duck a few times, but he's safe and snug up there. Still, if you can get a good shot at those two up high, we could make a break. That third guy wouldn't have a very good shot at us once we're moving. He's got a nice clean line on you, though, you understand me?""

" _Damn_." Heath braced himself for balance against the front wheel as Sombra whinnied in anger and again hauled ferociously on the buckboard. The rocking almost knocked him off his feet. Audra tried to call to her to calm her, but that seemed only to agitate the horse further. Heath looked over his shoulder, picturing the rock wall Jarrod had described, seeing his targets in his mind. He wasn't likely going to get but one chance at this.

"Jarrod, Audra, get ready to run. When I say, take a few shots at the guy in the rabbit hole, see if you can get him to keep his head down for just a coupla seconds, that'll be all I need. Just a few shots, though, then as soon as I engage those two up high you _go_. Hear?" He paused for just a moment, wanting to be sure they were ready – and willing – to git as fast as they could. He saw their reluctant agreement.

He closed his eyes for just a breath, picturing his targets once more. Opened them, nodded at his brother and sister. They laid down some covering fire, and Heath turned, stood up, and put a bullet in the head of one of the men positioned up high. He fired at the second one, but he had dropped behind his cover. Not looking behind him, Heath yelled, "Go, go!" and felt a wave of relief as he heard the sound of their horses going full tilt down the trail.

He chambered another round and was looking for the second sniper to show when he heard Digger grunt and then make a coughing, raspy sound. Heath was forced to duck down as the gunfire resumed from the two remaining shooters, and bullets splintered holes in the driver's seat and sides of the wagon. The big gelding jerked again, now with a scream of pain, and staggered sideways into Heath, his legs buckling. Heath grabbed at the near wagon shaft in an unsuccessful attempt to keep his balance and move clear, but the wounded horse thrashed and twisted, shoving him off his feet and entangling him in the rigging of the harness. Desperately he hung on to the shaft with one arm in an attempt to keep from falling under Digger's panicked hooves. He groped blindly on the ground behind him for the hatchet he had pulled from the toolbox. He had intended to use it to cut both horses away from the wagon, but he realized now he might need it just to get himself free.

Sombra had become frantic. Audra and Nike had ridden away, and she could smell the blood and hear the pain of the dying horse in the harness. She sank her haunches low to the ground, putting all her considerable power into her single-minded frenzy to escape. Heath heard her scream in rage. The far wheels of the buckboard rose again - and kept rising. The shaft of the wagon lifted and then snapped, slamming into his chest and knocking him to the ground.

Stunned, for a moment he just lay there breathless, blinking as the buckboard lifted, loomed, blotted out the sky. But as the carefully stowed contents began to rumble over the sides, he shook his head clear, pushed himself up to get his right arm free, and with a prayer, threw the hatchet at Sombra's tether.

He wasn't even close. The buckboard rose and tipped, and finally, her tether snapped. Sombra staggered backwards, pivoted, and galloped down the trail after Nike and Audra. The buckboard slammed down onto its side with a crash. The rigging shoved the horse even more off balance as he fell toward Heath. Digger cried out again as he fought to stand. Heath, unable to get his own feet under him and pull himself clear of the tangle of reins and tracers and poles and the thrashing, frightened horse, was trapped and knocked to the ground once again. More bullets flew. He wrapped his arms over his head as a rain of boxes and bundles of shingles tumbled out of the wagon and rolled over him.

 _At least I'm not stuck under the wagon. Could be worse --_

The buckboard rocked finally into stillness, and Digger, already kneeling, his head hung to the ground, lost his battle to stay on his feet. He coughed. His trembling legs gave out, and Heath braced himself as the big horse collapsed over him with a pitiful groan.

 _Oh, hell, Digger, I'm sorry_ , Heath thought, even as he realized he was in a very, very bad situation.


	23. Chapter 23 - After the Deluge

_See those children/dressed up in black_  
 _(God's gonna trouble the water)_  
 _They come a long way/they ain't turnin' back_  
 _(God's gonna trouble the water)_  
 _Wade in the water_  
 _Wade in the water, children_

* * *

 _"Come here and sit by me, Heath. We'll do some reading."_

 _"But Aunt Rachael – my head hurts – and my eye is all swole – do I have to read tonight?"_

 _"_ 'Swollen' _, darling, the proper word is_ 'swollen' _." She paused, waiting._

 _"My eye is all - swollen. Do I have to read?"_

 _"How about this, tonight, I'll read to you. OK? I have Robinson Crusoe. We're at a very exciting part, do you remember?"_

 _"Yes, he was all alone on the island and he saw – he found – a footprint, and he was so scared he ran back to his shelter to hide." He smiled. "That part was funny."_

 _"Yes, he does write it that way. He tells how he's feeling and all the crazy things he's thinking, but he's also able to laugh at himself. And how are you feeling? Is your headache any better than it was this morning?"_

 _He nodded._

 _"Good. And your face is less swollen – I can almost see both of those pretty blue eyes now."_

 _"Aunt Rachael, I'm a_ boy _, I'm not_ pretty _!" His attempt at outrage failed as he started giggling at her teasing._

 _"You're right, Heath, you're not pretty. You're_ beautiful _."_

 _He laughed at her. "You're silly, Aunt Rachael."_

 _For a moment, it seemed to Rachael that the love she felt for this child – and the rage she felt at that man who hurt him - might just burst out of her chest. "Lord forgive me for what I'd like to do to that vile uncle of yours –" she said softly, then she broke off, her eyes suddenly bright with tears. "I promised myself I wasn't going to go off on that." She took a deep breath and smiled at him. He watched her face now solemnly. "I love you, child, and I'm going to make sure you keep learning, and reading, and using the head God gave you. I'm not going to let your stupid uncle - or that pinheaded schoolmaster who thinks you don't belong in school with other kids – stop you from doing that."_

 _"Uncle Matt called me a stray dog."_

 _"That drunken, foul-mouthed –"_

 _"OK, Rach, he's got a headache, he doesn't need to hear your tirade tonight. Just read him the book. Lord knows you could both use a vacation off into that island adventure story." Leah's smile warmed them both. The two women's eyes met over the blond boy's head, speaking volumes of shared sadness, anger, worry, love. Leah placed a hand on Rachael's cheek. "Thank heaven for you. Do you need anything before I leave for work?"_

 _Heath looked up at both women, still thinking about Uncle Matt. "But the schoolmaster, he called me the same thing. Said I was bad for the other kids. Kids with – 'proper families' – he said."_

 _With an effort, Rachael kept her expression calm, reminding herself to focus on the little boy sitting beside her. She looked him in the eye. "They are fools, Heath_. _You have a family_. _I love you. Your Mama loves you, and Hannah loves you. Don't you forget that."_

 _Heath nodded. He hugged and kissed his Mama and watched her go out the door, then snuggled in closer next to Rachael, closing his eyes. He shivered, wanting to draw some heat and comfort from her. His head was aching terribly, he was dizzy, his broken collarbone was aching too, and he was so cold. His very bones were cold, as cold as when his Mama came and pulled him from the river this time when he was hiding from his Uncle Matt. She found him and saved him, and held him tight, and she was warm and soft and strong. But now…now suddenly it seemed there was no warmth anywhere, anymore, and he wondered if he might never be warm again. He wanted to ask Rachael why he was so cold. He tried to open his eyes, tried to move, but he felt so slow, and heavy, and cold –_

"Yo, Barkley, time to wake up!"

An icy flood of water poured over him. The shock of the cold made his muscles clench like an iron band around his chest. He gasped, tried to breathe, and succeeded only in sucking in the frigid river water that was pouring over his head. Coldness was forgotten, and panicked suffocation took over as his sole focus. He choked, tried to cough, but had no air in his lungs. Reflexively, he brought his arms up to cover his face, trying to ward off the drowning flood. He turned his head away, and managed to gag, swallow, and spit out enough water to get a breath in. This led promptly to more coughing, and he held his head in his arms, moaning with the lancinating pain that was shooting through his skull, his chest, his back – pretty much everywhere, he was starting to realize. _Where – what the hell - -?_

He blinked his eyes, looking past his dripping shirt sleeves for some clues, but all he saw was mud and leather, and splintered wood – and a horse. A horse down, and dying.

 _Digger_. It all came pounding back to him even as he was overcome again by coughing. Another freezing deluge poured over him. He moaned again as he hacked up dirty water from his lungs and struggled not to vomit.

Jasper grinned down at the complete mess he had orchestrated, feeling fairly well satisfied at how things had turned out so far. He was particularly pleased with the state of the wet, filthy, shivering cowboy he now had pinned down like a bug under a dying horse.

He crouched down beside Heath. "Sun's down. Gettin' pretty damn cold, pretty damn quick, dontcha think?"

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Audra abruptly reined in Nike from her gallop, wheeling her around to look intently back up the trail. Jingo was not quite as agile as the quarter horse, nor was Jarrod a mind reader, so they were a good several horse lengths further down the trail before they could turn around and come up alongside.

"Audra, what is it?"

"I thought I heard something. A horse."

Brother and sister both listened intently in the deepening dusk. The sounds of the Stanislaus River seemed to echo through the pine forest. Their two horses, only slightly winded from their run, breathed clouds of vapor into the cooling air. Then Nike's head came up, and she nickered, smelling the wind and shying a bit to one side. Jingo's ears came forward, listening. Jarrod looked a warning at Audra, and both readied their rifles, moving just off the trail to a dark, sheltered spot. Audra stroked Nike's neck and shushed her whinnying.

In a few minutes, they could hear what the two horses had perceived, and a moment later, they saw the massive dark form of Sombra emerge into their view. She was rider-less – that was no surprise, but Audra felt a terrible, sharp disappointment nonetheless. Sombra danced to a halt above them on the trail. She was sweating, agitated – her eyes were wide, her nostrils flared and billowing steam like a war-dragon on a Chinese tapestry. She whinnied at Audra and Nike when they stepped out on the trail below her, but did not approach any closer. She backed up, circled, and fretted where she stood, tossed her head, and then cried out again.

"Jarrod –"

"Yes. Yes, I know, honey."

"We have to go back. Where is he? He said he'd be right behind us. We can go back, Jarrod, right? There's only two of them left now, there's two of us - we can - what do you call it - we can outflank them now, right? Look even Sombra knows we have to go back. We have to. He could be hurt. We can't leave him there." She was starting to babble.

"Audra." She stopped, eyes wide. "Audra, yes, we're going back for him. If we go all the way down to Vallecito for help, we could be too late if he's in trouble. We have to go back. But we need to be careful. We don't know for sure how many there are left. We need a plan."

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Jasper was happier than he'd felt in months when he realized the Barkley bunch was sending their bastard up into the mountains. It had been easy as pie to get ahead of that slow-moving wagon and pick a likely spot to take them out on the trail.

His plan, originally, after they scored the fresh horses in Sonora, was to swing through the Barkley range and see how much of their new breeding stock he could make off with, then run 'em all quick up to a trader he knew in Placerville who never asked where his animals came from. But _then_ – Lord have mercy - he saw the mutt packing up a buckboard – _and_ that crazy horse – and heading out on the trail to Strawberry. Jasper had laughed 'till he had a belly ache. Then he wiped his eyes, rousted his crew and got moving up country to get ahead of that wagon.

Jasper looked around at what was left of his crew now. Two dead, two wounded, and two unscathed. Fewer mouths to share the loot with, he figured, no great loss. Of the two wounded, well, one was well on his way out of this world. The other one, Marco, had his right shoulder shot all to hell, but looked like he might live. For sure, though, he wasn't going to be good for nothin' to Jasper. Jasper watched with a smirk as Jinks helped Marco up into his saddle. Marco wandered off into the night to find death, or possibly whatever little help there might be out there for him to find on his own.

They'd had themselves a nice little firefight. The Barkley whelp got onto his trap sooner than Jasper wanted, but not so much that he couldn't adapt. Jasper had found a good, cozy lookout spot for himself with a narrow gap between two rocks, where he could snipe on the trail from perfect safety.

Of course the two purebred Barkley kids would run for it as soon as they had the chance. _That_ was no surprise, and serves the bastard right, anyway. Jasper had no clue why two manor-born Barkleys would be out on the trail with the whelp in the first place. He'd have to ask him, once he woke him up – should be a funny story, no matter what. He reckoned it was unlikely the pedigree pups would be coming back for him, but just in case, he figured he'd better ask about that, as well.

Now, when Barkley took out Jasper's best shooter up in his perch and was seeking after the other one, Jasper had gotten a little worried. He hadn't been able to peg the damned whelp himself, ducked as he was behind the wagon and rigging, but the horse made a nice big target. He figured two crazed horses, with one of 'em shot and falling over onto a man, well, it oughta shut down that man's counterattack right quick – and right he was. The big Black tipping over the wagon like that was just icing on the cake. Jasper was practically giggling as he waved Jinks to come down from his perch in the rocks and climbed down himself to survey the chaos.

The harness horse was still alive when he got there, but just barely. Jasper initially thought the same about Barkley. On closer inspection, though, after he pushed aside some of the debris, it seemed the whelp was mainly just banged up and knocked out cold. Jasper disarmed him, first of all, and sent Jinks grumbling down to the river to bring back several buckets of water to fill up a barrel that had rolled off the buckboard. Then he handed Jinks his very own personal pouch of chewing tobacco to keep him alert, and sent him back up to his lookout.

Laughing again to himself, Jasper filled a bucket, his hands aching from the brief dip in the snow-melt water. He hauled it over to the prone figure on the ground. Only his upper body was visible, his face in the dirt. The rest of him was buried under a mess of harness, cargo, splintered wagon parts, and bleeding, dying horseflesh. It had taken some doing for Jasper to even get the boy's sidearm and rifle out from under all that stuff. He lifted the bucket and dumped it over Heath's head.

"Yo, Barkley! Time to wake up, dog! Let's go!"

He got a sluggish response. Heath groaned, tried to move. He succeeded only in turning a bit sideways and getting his face out of the dirt. Scooping up another bucket, Jasper took the opportunity to pour the river water directly onto the kid's face, which got a much better reaction. While Heath was busy waking up and choking and hacking up mud and water, Jasper threw one more bucket on him just to make sure he was nice and soaking wet. Air felt for sure it was gonna freeze good tonight.

"Sun's down. Gettin' pretty damn cold, pretty damn quick, dontcha think? Nice little breeze coming up too."

The whelp was already shaking from the cold. Jasper watched him tug and squirm a few times to see if he could budge at all to get out from under this mess – nothing doing. His head fell back to the ground, looking up at the rustler. "Jasper, damn you, look at this mess. I didn't think things could get much worse, but you have a talent, I'll give you that." Jasper lit the stump of a cigar he held in his teeth and lifted another bucket of water over Heath's face. Heath's eyes widened and he held up his hands. " _Mr_. Jasper, right, Mr. Jasper."

"That's better." He pulled up a crate and sat down, making himself comfortable, watching the kid shiver. He could see his fingers turning blue. "So. Y'all were heading up to Strawberry? Little family outing? I was hoping to find something a little more valuable in this wagon, but it looks like y'all were just going to do repairs and whatnot."

"F-family outing. Huh." Heath grunted a humorless laugh. He tried wrapping his arms around himself, but there was an evening breeze picking up now, and it helped not at all. "N-not hardly."

"And?" Jasper moved the bucket over by Heath's head and rested his boot comfortably on it. The threat was clear. He had learned over the years that two or three buckets of water in the face of a restrained man would convince him to do just about anything you said. Jasper knew, because he had been at the receiving end of such a dialogue once when he got caught by _federales_ in Mexico.

"And…" Heath looked away. "They weren't g-gonna send anything valuable. Said they wasted enough already. I have an old place still up in Strawberry, t-told 'em I'd go there, just needs some fixing up."

Jasper started to laugh. " _What_? You mean they run you off?"

Heath scowled, looked embarrassed, angry. Still not meeting his eyes. "C'mon, Jasper, gimme a break. No one really thought this would last, did they?"

Jasper answered by picking up the bucket and pouring it leisurely, steadily, over Heath's head. He watched with satisfaction as the kid tried not to panic, or vomit – unsuccessfully of course.

"W-what w-was th-that for - -?" he choked out, once he could breathe again. The kid was definitely blue now.

"They threw you out? Now why would that fancy sister and that fancy lawyer brother be riding _with_ you if they was throwing you out? Why the big gunfight? Yeah, they hightailed it outta here, _that_ was no surprise. What I don't get is why they stayed to fight at all."

"They s-sent Jarrod to make sure I g-get outta town like I said I would – he's g-gonna make it legal." He gave another cynical, defeated laugh. The shivering was painful and his head was pounding. The cold was slowing down his thinking, and his words were beginning to slur as much as his thoughts. "I th-think iss l-like th' opposite of a-a-adoption –" His eyes followed Jasper as he rose to go fill the bucket again. He tried to talk faster. "An' Audra, she c-came b'cause i' was her c-c-crazy horse, an' she s-s-tubborn as – as – as all get out –" His arms came up over his head as Jasper raised the bucket again. "Please –"

"Why'd they fight?"

"C-c'mon Jasper, y-ya can't g-go shoot at a m-man's ba-baby sister an' not h-h-have im shoot b-b-back, right?" He was looking desperate. Jasper dumped the bucket. This time the kid coughed and choked for long enough he passed out for a few minutes. Jasper waited till he came around.

" _Mister_ Jasper, dog. And you haven't met my sister. I'd buy a drink for the man that took a shot at her."

"Yeah, mister, mister, right –" The kid was still coughing up river water, but his eyes were only half open now, and his speech was mumbled and slurred. Still, he kept trying to pull himself free. What a waste of effort.

"Kid, you ain't getting' out from under. There's no way."

"Why don' you g-g-gemme out –"

Jasper got another bucket.

"What – please, d-d-"

"They coming back, your stubborn sister and lawyer brother?"

"I don't – I don't know, hon-honest I don't, m-maybe – listen – you w-want good horses? I can bring you to – to – just –"

The bucket lifted.

"God, please, I don't know, I don't know. Maybe they'll wanna m-make sure 'm dead, I don't know – god, my head hurts –" He looked up at the bucket. "I know where the best stock is, I do, that's what I do – w-what I d-did – f-for them - all th-that work an' they jus' send me p-p-packin' –" The bucket tipped.

When Heath came back to himself next, he was coughing and spitting up water, he was wet, and he was so cold his thoughts were as numb as his skin. On the positive side, he was out from under Digger and everything else. His boots were missing and he couldn't feel his toes any more than he could feel anything else in his body, but he could move his toes and his knees, and he had to think that was a good sign he hadn't lost the whole lower half of his body. He rolled sluggishly to one side and saw Digger looking at something a thousand miles away. His breathing was rapid and shallow, and he lay in a dark pool of blood. Heath whispered to him. "Hey, Digger, I'm so sorry, boy. You were a good horse. I'm so sorry –" Looking down at himself, he seemed to be soaked in the horse's blood. He heard Jasper behind him.

"So. You wanna help me rustle some prime stock. You. The Barkley bastard that was so all high-and-mighty."

"Well that high-an-mighty thing didn't t-turn out so g-good, did it. And neither d-did the plan to m-move back to Strawberry, th-thanks to you. Ain't got nothin' m-much left t' lose. Not even ol' Digger here."

"Guess we'll see, dog. You live through the night, maybe I'll think 'bout using you." He looked over at the dying horse. "You want me to put him down for ya? No games."

"Y-yes -"

Heath closed his eyes as the shot rang out. _Rest in peace, Digger, we always could count on you. Jarrod, Audra, if you're coming back, please god be careful. Be careful._

Jasper turned quickly when he heard a distinctive bird call coming from Jinks' lookout spot. He glanced at Heath who seemed now to be in a stupor, shivering convulsively and holding his head in his arms. No shoes, almost as good as ankle chains in this wilderness. Jasper hustled over to check in with Jinks.

"Coulda swore I saw some movement down on that bend in the trail. Gone now."

Jasper headed back to the wagon, thinking he'd start salvaging anything worthwhile. He stumbled over a few boxes and a bag of chicken feed in the dark. When he righted himself and came around to the front of the overturned wagon, he stopped and swore loudly. The Barkley whelp was gone.


	24. Chapter 24 - The River Styx

_A fire blazed within the cookstove. The common room of the small house was warm and smelled of chicken broth. Watching the yellow flames dance behind the iron grate with half-open, sleepy eyes, the bruised seven-year-old thought his Mama was using up way more firewood than she should, and it not even full winter yet._

 _He wasn't going to complain, though. Even wrapped in blankets by the stove, he was still shivering, and he was tired, and everything hurt from where his Uncle Matt got his fists into him today. And besides, his Mama made it clear she would brook no backtalk from him once she got him home. She had fished him out from the river where he had gotten trapped hiding from his uncle, and brought him on home, and got him and herself dry and almost warm again._

 _Rachael and Hannah too, they were both in a no-nonsense mood tonight - they were tending to him and he'd better just sit still and let them get on about their business._

 _His eyes - or one eye at least, the other being puffed shut - followed Hannah as she moved about the kitchen area, humming and then singing one of her songs. She brought him a cup of broth._

 _"I walk through the churchyard  
_ _To lay this body down;_

 _I know moon-rise, I walk in the moonlight;  
_ _I see the star-rise, I walk in the starlight;_

 _I'll lie in the grave and stretch out my arms,  
_ _I'll go to judgment in the evening of the day,  
_ _And my soul and thy soul shall meet that day,  
_ _When I lay this body down."_

 _"I like when you sing, Hannah. Even those sad ones make me feel happy inside."_

 _She laughed softly. "That feeling is the Lord comforting you in hard times, child, that's what my Mama always told me."_

 _She went on humming. Over in the sleeping room, Leah and Rachael were whispering, both trying - with limited success - to mute their anger and sadness and keep it away from the ears of the little boy by the stove._

 _"Put the shotgun down. Rachael, please -"_

 _"I'm gonna kill him, Leah."_

 _"No, Rachael -"_

 _"It's my fault. I was going to go with him when the grocer offered to pay him a penny to run those canned goods over to the hotel. I told him to wait for me, but I know Heath wanted to get there before the cook left, because he always gives him something to eat, and Heath's always hungry, you know that, and then when I couldn't find him - oh my God, Leah, I'm so sorry, it's all my fault that monster got his hands on him -" She was sobbing._

 _"Rachael, give me the gun." Leah was crying as well, now. She took the shotgun from Rachael's hands and pulled her into her arms. Holding her, she spoke softly._

 _"Rachael, you can't go kill him. I can't lose you. I need you, Heath needs you. It's not worth it to me, killing that man, if I had to lose you. Please -"_

 _"Leah - I'm so -"_

 _"I know, Rachael. I know."_

* * *

Stumbling into the woods, Heath had a vague memory of telling Jasper a tale, hoping he'd believe Jarrod and Audra were long gone, and hoping he'd think maybe there was some profit to letting Heath live, at least for now. Must have worked, at least enough so Jasper pulled him out from under and didn't right off put a bullet in his head.

But now Heath was just dragging himself into the dark, so cold and shaking so badly he could barely breathe. The night breeze got progressively stronger, and every touch of that moving air pulled more heat and life out of him.

Moving in the dark ahead of him now was the north fork of the Stanislaus. He knew he hadn't gotten very far from the trail yet, frozen and barefoot as he was, and even now he thought he could hear Jasper stomping into the dark looking for him.

Getting into that black frigid water was pretty close to the last thing on earth Heath wanted to do, but in his foggy, sluggish mind he reckoned maybe he was so numb he wouldn't feel too much worse than he did already. Right now getting caught again by Jasper had the number one spot on his list of things to avoid, and he was pretty sure Jasper wasn't wanting to get wet himself.

 _Wade in the water,_ he thought, and staggered forward. He kept upright for all of two paces before the current knocked him off his numb, unprotected feet and pulled him under.

* * *

Marshals Smith and Sawyer were tearing up the Strawberry trail as fast as they could in the dark. They'd picked up the tracks of the Barkley's wagon, as well as those of Jasper's crew, but more important, they'd picked up a wounded rustler named Marco who was more than willing to trade information for a drink of water. They turned him loose once he'd told what he could, and Marco wandered off just happy to get away from those two very scary lawmen.

They were getting close to the river and the point of ambush that Marco had described. They rounded a bend in the trail and came face to face with Jarrod and Audra, their rifles pointed at whoever was coming up behind them so urgently.

"Frank, John, where the devil did you come from?" Jarrod lowered his weapon, relieved.

"Got word Jasper and his boys might be on your tail. Ran into one of 'em just now with a bullet in his shoulder." John said.

"That was the man I shot," Audra said, looking down the trail. "I'm glad he's not dead, so long as he's not coming back."

John and Frank raised their eyebrows at Jarrod, who nodded. "Last we saw, of the six, there were two dead for certain, two wounded, and two still shooting. The one I wounded I'm pretty sure is dead by now, from what I could see," he said gravely.

"I'm sorry you had to do that, Audra," John said quietly. "Are you two ok? Where's Heath?"

"We're on our way back to get him," Audra said. "He covered us so we could get out of range of the ambush but then he didn't come behind us. Sombra was loose, but she wouldn't come to us, she turned around and went back. I think she went looking for him."

Frank scowled up the trail, then shared a worried look with John. "We'd better get moving."

* * *

The group of four entered cautiously into the site of the ambush, emerging from several different directions in case Jasper and his sniper were still a threat. Momentarily stunned into silence by the catastrophic scene before them, they began sweeping their eyes over the dark forest around them, looking for threats and for any sign of their brother and friend.

"Heath!" Jarrod called out. The marshals circled the perimeter, seeking tracks to indicate where Heath or the other two men had gone. Audra knelt by Digger.

"Jasper shot Digger. I know he did. I bet he shot him just so he would fall on Heath. Look. Heath's boots are under him there. There's so much blood...I hope it's just from the horse?"

"I think you're right, Audra. Someone stowed Heath's guns over there by the wagon. Looks like he was dragged out from under the horse and was lying on the ground over here. I don't see any sign here that Heath was bleeding, so that's good - but then what? Where is he? And what's with all this water?"

"I think I can explain that," Nick said, riding into the midst of the group with a battered and trussed Jinks at the end of his rope. "And it's about time you got up here. What took you so long?"

* * *

 _Ground, solid ground_ , Heath repeated to himself, _solid ground_. He couldn't clearly remember how he got out of the water. He just remembered going under, rolling around, and just trying to move in a direction, any direction, in hopes of feeling solid ground. He didn't know where he was or where he thought he was going, or even what he was fleeing from. He could be crawling right back to where he started from for all he knew.

It seemed his whole world had come down to the patch of ground he could see in the darkness right in front of his nose. He was cold, he moved his body to keep it alive. This was his only volitional thought. Beyond that, it was just the unbounded past flowing freely through his mind like a deep undammed river, over and under and around him, memories rising and falling and carrying him wherever they chose. His muscles shivered and cramped and refused to follow his commands.

Pulling himself just a little further he felt dry ground, softer ground, pine needles. Warmth, just a little, something he could pull to him to block out the cold mountain air that was drinking him down into nothing. Shaking overtook him again. He closed his eyes, knowing he could just let go and drift off. _Wouldn't be bad, really, I wouldn't be cold anymore_ … He hummed softly into the pine needles.

"...my soul and thy soul shall meet on that day,

When I lay this body down..."

He felt warm breath and a soft touch on his cheek, and felt long hair falling around him. He reached out to pull the warmth closer, sighing...

 _Still shivering, bundled up by the fire, Heath dozed in Rachael's lap. He felt her rocking him, her warm breath on his head, her long thick dark hair undone from its usual wrapped and braided restraint and flowing down around him._

 _In his sleepy stupor he ran his fingers through her hair and held it to his face. It warmed him and he felt, for the moment, safe._

 _"Your hair is so different from Mama's and mine. It's so dark and long -" he mumbled._

 _"Hush, child. Sleep."_

 _"I like it, it keeps me warm."_

 _"You're talking nonsense, darling, but that's ok."_

 _"Aunt Rachael?"_

 _"Hmm?"_

 _"Don't kill Uncle Matt. I don't want to lose you like Mama says. I can get better at staying away from him. I can. And I promise I'll be big someday and then Uncle Matt won't hurt any of us anymore."_

 _"Shh, darling, rest. I promise, you and your Mama won't ever lose me. I promise."_

* * *

"Nick, where the hell - how - how did you know to come here?"

"Heath isn't the only one who knows some shortcuts through these hills, y'know," Nick broadly informed them all. "I'll remind you, Jarrod, while you were off in law school, I was up here hunting strays, and Lord help me with Father if I left any behind."

"And Lord help you with Mother if you were late for dinner. I remember," Jarrod conceded.

"I learned fast, believe you me. Now where the hell is my brother? I've talked to two of these vermin already and they don't know. One I found in the trail shot in the shoulder. He sent me here, where I found _this_ weasel looking to shoot whoever came up the trail from below."

"And?"

"All he's told me is Jasper shot Digger on purpose to drop him on Heath. Says the black horse tipped over the wagon and ran. Jasper apparently then spent some time smothering Heath with a bunch of frigid river water for fun, before he finally pulled him out from under the dead horse. This guy says, last he saw Heath, he was breathing, hardly moving, very cold, and soaking wet. They took their eyes off Heath for a minute, and he was gone. Jasper went looking for him."

"So Heath's alive, thank God," Audra breathed.

"That doesn't give us much time," Jarrod said. "Jasper's out after him. Heath can't be moving very well, so cold and with no shoes. It's dropped below freezing, and it's already been a few hours since then. We have to find him now."

"Well, we don't have to worry about Jasper, at least. I stumbled across him," Nick said, dismissively.

"Where? What happened?"

"Off a little ways toward the river. I was just about to go back and get him once I dropped this guy off. Jasper's alive, but he's been pretty well trampled. Both his legs broke, from what I can tell. He's not talking much sense. He swears it was the black horse came after him."

"Sombra! I'm telling you, she can find Heath, I know it."

"Audra, that sounds crazy," Frank said. "She's not a bloodhound."

"No, no, Audra's right, Marshal," Nick said. "Jarrod, remember the time General Fremont came to visit Father, and he told us about his horse Sacramento? The General went on and on about how horses are as good if not better than bloodhounds for tracking, in the right conditions. Indians have known it for years hunting game."

"Well, there's tracks I think are Heath's, over there, going south toward the river," Smith said. "That black mare has some big feet. Let's split up and get tracking her too, and go find that boy quick before he freezes to death. Nick, maybe you and Frank go drag Jasper outta the woods first? Tie him up with his buddy here."

"Yep, we can do that right quick," Frank said, hugely relieved that Jasper wasn't out hunting Heath. Moreover, he was much more comfortable with the idea of following tracks than relying on a horse to be a bloodhound. "Maybe rig up some torches to bring with us to find Heath. _Seriously_ , though, John, doesn't that boy know we're tired of chasing after him day and night through the mountains? I think you need to give him a good talking to."


	25. Ch 25 - An Imperfectly Mingled Spirit

_By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, we also wept, when we remembered Zion. We hung our lyres on the willows in its midst. For there, those who carried us away captive required of us a song; and those who tormented us required of us mirth, saying, 'Sing us one of the songs of Zion.'_

 _How shall we sing God's song in a foreign land? If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. If I do not remember you, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy._

 _Psalms 137:1-6_

 _Every man casts a shadow; not his body only, but his imperfectly mingled spirit; this is his grief; let him turn which way he will, it falls opposite to the sun; short at noon, long at eve. Did you never see it?_

 _Henry David Thoreau_

 _Summer, 1873_

 _He rode hard up to Strawberry, sweaty and uncomfortable in the brand new tweed suit he'd had to put on for the unveiling ceremony, and nauseated with worry for Mrs. Barkley's safety._

 _This dreaded unveiling day was going even worse than he'd anticipated. First thing this morning, he was just rushing in to get dressed and ready to go, when he was confronted with a request to wear a pair of his father's boots as a commemorative gesture. Heath wasn't sure which was more disturbing: the fact that they had reluctantly offered the boots to him as an afterthought, once the "real sons" had failed to get their feet inside, or that the boots fit him like a glove. On further reflection, he concluded that the afterthought was understandable; the perfect fit was decidedly creepy. In any case, he couldn't muster any joy for the boots, and succeeded in deeply offending Mrs. Barkley and all of his siblings before he'd been in the room with them for more than two minutes._

 _Since he'd come into this Barkley family, he'd been worn out trying to find a path forward that felt steady under his feet. It had been hard. The gauntlet of hostility, suspicion, disrespect, and sabotage that kept coming his way - from the hands, the people of Stockton, even sometimes from his brothers - this would have been challenge enough even if he weren't still so torn up inside from the loss of his mother._

 _Leah had died not even two months ago. Her absence, and his loneliness, was still a fresh, open wound inside him, though unseen and unacknowledged by this otherwise extremely demonstrative family. And so every slight or insult in this new place seemed to cut him to the bone; every kindness and indication of acceptance seemed only to intensify his grief for the love that had passed away from him._

 _He had been filled with dread when this statue unveiling had been announced, and the whole family began to bubble with anticipation and pride. He did not begrudge them that happiness. He had searched himself and truly he believed he didn't begrudge them, but neither could he join in that mood, or even come close to faking it. He didn't want to think about Tom Barkley. Not yet, anyway. Heath was coming to love this family, as difficult and strange and thoughtlessly cruel as they could be at times. Heath cared little to nothing about Tom Barkley's intentions, at least as they related to his bastard son. Tom Barkley had done what he had done, he had planted his seed and moved on, and whether he had been ignorant of the results of his affair mattered little to Heath._

 _He could now see, however, that Tom Barkley's intentions mattered a great deal to Victoria. What Heath could give her of his memories was not enough to ease the doubts and questions in her mind. He knew she would go looking for answers. He just never dreamed she would go right now, on this day, when the whole town was preparing a celebration in her husband's honor. When it finally sank into his thick head that Mrs. Barkley had actually gone missing, and was not just out having tea and admiring her friend Emily's garden, Heath realized what had happened. Cursing himself for his self-centered stupidity, he ghosted out the door of the hotel room and was tearing up-country on Charger before his siblings even knew he had stepped out._

 _Strawberry seemed even more decayed and empty than it did the day they buried Leah. The town itself held mostly bad memories for him. His happiness had been outside of town; time spent with his Mama and Rachael and Hannah in the small cabin that Rachael had bought for them with her savings, or exploring the river and forest and the mountain meadows that surrounded Strawberry._

 _If Mrs. Barkley had gone to see Rachael and Hannah, Heath thought, she would be safe. It was here in town that the danger lay. He had told Mrs. Barkley about Matt Simmons – had given her his name and only the briefest indication that there was no love lost between him and his aunt and uncle – and he cursed himself again for even mentioning them._

 _The day Heath left town to go to the Barkley ranch, he had seen the scavenging hyena look in Martha's eyes. Matt's reaction had been not so avaricious; rather, he was looking forward to hearing the news that Heath had been driven away from Stockton or shot like a troublesome stray mongrel. Heath knew, though, that Matt would bend to Martha's will, and so he feared for Mrs. Barkley. Heath did not go to the cabin, but rode directly to the hotel._

 _He heard a small commotion just inside. As he reached for the handle the door was thrown open with a rattle of decaying hardware, and suddenly, Mrs. Barkley was in his arms, calling his name with relief, and holding on to him for dear life. She was so petite, and yet so strong and solid. He could feel her heart racing. And there, of course, were Matt and Martha. Instinctively, he held Mrs. Barkley steady with his hands and kept his words and movements to a minimum, but his eyes threatened death to the two vultures in the room. He followed Mrs. Barkley's lead in not questioning further what had occurred, and kept his attention on getting her out of town as soon as possible. She waited until they were well away before she told them what she had learned. Told him of the letter, so eager to share that with him._

 _She told him they had murdered his Aunt Rachael._

Had I known what they had done – had I known –

 _"You should have told me." He heard himself speaking from a great distance, as though it were someone else._

She was right not to tell me. She was. But –

 _"No, I couldn't take that chance. You might have killed them. No, we'll tell Jarrod, and if there's a way, the law will be back for them." Her voice was casual, relieved, so confident Jarrod would bring this to a favorable outcome. She was happy with what she had discovered, and seemed to believe it would bring Heath some peace of mind as well._

She knew I could've killed them. She knew, but she didn't really understand.

Rachael was gone. She was gone…?

 _He was aware of a vague sense of relief that he was bringing Mrs. Barkley home safe, and that she had found some information that was putting her mind at ease. He desperately seized onto those two facts and tried to construct from them a frail skin that could contain the raging hemorrhage of pain that was filling his body and his mind. He could barely hear her words as she read the letter._

 _In that moment he felt rage toward Tom, who could so gracefully compliment his mother as he rode away, not looking back. He felt rage toward Victoria, who seemed so satisfied to learn of her husband's ignorance of what he left behind, so certain Jarrod would ensure a proper legal outcome, and so comfortably unaware of the terrible wound that had just been inflicted on her husband's bastard son._

 _A few weeks ago, that bastard son had been sitting in that fancy house, feeling proud of himself that he'd gotten a herd of mean-minded cowhands and ornery cattle all the way to San Diego to make a nice profit for the Barkley family. Sat feeling proud of himself, while his Aunt Rachael was being murdered trying to protect his way forward. Came home smiling to that fine house, while Matt and Martha threw his Aunt Rachael into a mine shaft to die._

 _And in that moment, more than anything, Heath felt rage at himself._

 _November, 1874_

The light of the torches flickered erratically over the trunks of the pine woods as the two groups of searchers moved slowly through the trees, calling out periodically to see if Heath would answer. Audra and Nick followed Sombra's trail from point where she had descended upon Jasper and quickly disabled him. Nick's impression, his eye admittedly hampered by the darkness, was that she had galloped up behind him, run him over, and just kept going.

Frank initially remained at the wagon site, making sure the bad guys were tied up securely, and then followed in after them. Not far away, John and Jarrod began their search from the spot by the wagon where Jasper had left Heath on the ground. That trail was also relatively easy to follow, as Heath seemed frequently to have been falling down, crawling, or dragging himself over the ground.

The two groups converged fairly soon by the river. The light of their raised torches reflected off the layer of white frost that now coated the rocky, forested landscape. There on the far shore of the moving water they could see the massive black shape of the mare lying on the ground. Her head was up, and she was intently watching their approach, nostrils flared as she huffed the air and breathed out a cloud of vapor. She made a low noise in her chest, almost a growl – a sound of warning. Her ears laid back, and she lowered her head protectively over the man lying motionless beside her, never taking her eyes from the group facing her across the water.

Audra called out to Heath, but got no response. She looked desperately at Jarrod. "Can you see, is he moving? Is he alive? Heath!"

Frank came up behind them, breathing hard. "You found him? What are you waiting f –" He stopped. "Jiminy Christmas. That is a big horse. No wonder Jasper is so busted up. She's not looking too friendly, is she?"

Audra abruptly turned and ran back toward the trail. Jarrod called after her. "Where are you going? Audra!" He got no answer. "What is she doing?"

Nick grabbed Jarrod's arm, impatient. "Let Audra go. I'm going over there. You with me?"

"Nick, I agree we don't want to waste time, but this is not a situation to go running off half-cocked."

"Well, we can't just stand here." He stepped down toward the water.

At his movement, Sombra growled another warning and surged to her feet. Her ears were laid back flat now, and she crouched slightly, as though expecting Nick to charge at her. She stood over Heath, her massive hooves planted on either side of his head and body. As she stood, Heath moved slightly and groaned.

"He's alive, thank God," Jarrod said. He called out to Heath again and saw more sluggish movement. "Nick, back off. Don't agitate her."

"She'll trample him."

"No she won't, and you know it, Nick. Any more than a mare would trample on her foal. She knows very well where her feet are. Just back off and let's figure out how to get him back over here. Where's Audra?"

Smith took a few steps back toward the trail and peered into the woods. "Looks like she's on her way back at top speed with Nike – and Jingo – and a pile of blankets. You boys better get out of her way."

Nick backed away from the shore. Jarrod looked worriedly across the river. Heath seemed to be trying to lift himself up on shaking arms, but fell down again and instead just rolled to his back. Sluggishly, he brought his arms up to hold his head and moaned in pain. At the sound, Sombra abandoned her aggressive stance. She dropped her head down to nudge Heath with her nose. Her long black mane fell over him, and she nudged him again, gently. Jarrod saw him reach up with a shaking hand to entwine his fingers in her mane. Slowly, carefully, she sank down to lie again beside him, covering him protectively with one foreleg and her massive head and neck.

The men heard Audra ride up behind them. Without pausing, she dropped Jingo's lead by Jarrod and rode Nike directly into the river. She crossed to Sombra and Heath, calling out to both of them. Sombra watched her approach with no apprehension. Audra swung out of the saddle on the far shore with an armful of blankets and ran to Heath.

"Sombra, you good girl, I knew you could find him. Heath, it's Audra, can you look at me? You're safe, we have to get you warmed up –"

 _Cold. He was so cold. He was trying to hold on to Rachael, but he was losing her, losing her, and it seemed there was no warmth anywhere, anymore. Rachael had tried to protect him, and she was slipping through his fingers. He thought for a moment he heard his Mama, calling to him, searching for him, but his Mama was gone too. He had lost them both, failed them both._

 _He could feel his mother's touch as a distant memory of light and warmth, moving on his skin. She called his name, and he ached for her, for Rachael. He wanted to be warm again, but now Rachael was gone. He had ridden away and left her to be murdered. He wished the cold would numb the pain and swallow him up. He had crossed over to a prison of cold and ice and he wasn't strong enough to escape. He didn't deserve to escape._

"Heath, can you hear me? Sombra, move yourself over a bit, I have to get these blankets on him." The mare shifted at Audra's request, but stayed close. Heath stirred, coughed, his hand closing over the dark mane that lay over him.

Audra leaned over him and slipped a blanket under his head. He grimaced at the movement, and his eyes flickered half open, unfocused, searching her face. "Mama -?" Even as he spoke, his eyes filled with tears and he tried to turn away, his face a mask of hopeless grief. "I'm so sorry, Mama, I'm so – I'm sorry –"

Audra caught her breath as she looked upon him. He was pale, his lips were blue, and his head and shoulders were covered with bruises from the avalanche of cargo that had landed on him. His muscles were rigid with cold. It was as if he had crossed over into death and become a corpse animated now only by pain and sorrow and regret. He turned from her words of comfort, the rasp of his voice muffled against the mare's neck.

"It's all my fault - Mama, I promised, I promised, but I wasn't there, I left her alone and they killed her. I can't leave her now - can't go back - I don't deserve to go back. Rachael, forgive me, please - please don't leave - please don't leave me -"

Trying not to weep herself, Audra shakily wiped her eyes and forced herself to focus on what was needed, here, now. "I'm right here, Heath, we're going to get you home." His wet clothing had frozen on him. Audra fumbled unsuccessfully with the buttons of his shirt, knowing she had to get it off and get dry blankets around him. "Jarrod! I need your help!"

Jarrod was already mounted and moving Jingo to the river bank. As they waded in, he gasped as the painful cold of the water made his bones ache as it rose up to his knees. He couldn't imagine swimming across on a night like this. As he dismounted and ran to Audra, he could hear Heath speaking, his voice hoarse and muffled, and Audra responding softly. Jarrod knelt beside her. It seemed to him that Heath was trying to pull away from her touch; he was turning to hide his face, his hands fisted in the horse's mane as though holding on for dear life. The pain in his voice was heartbreaking, and Jarrod could see Audra was crying as well.

She looked wide-eyed at her brother. "Jarrod, his clothes are frozen on him, we have to get them off and warm him up, right? I can't - the buttons - do you have a knife?"

"You're exactly right, Audra, get ready with those blankets and I'll just cut this shirt off of him. You're doing fine, honey. One step at a time."

"Jarrod, he thinks I'm his mother - he's crying for Rachael - he says it was his fault she was killed -"

"He's delirious, honey. Let's just get him dry and warm."

She nodded, turning resolutely back to her task.

"Heath, listen, it's Audra. Can you look at me? We have to get you warm, dry you off. We're going to bring you back over the river."

Heath shook his head, his back to her, his whole body shivering. She could barely hear his words. "..can't be forgiven, I know, I just – just want to stay with you, I was supposed t-to k-keep you safe - you took care of me all my life and I just left and let them kill you - it's my fault. I know it's my fault, please forgive me, please don't go, don't go -"

"Heath, are you hurt anywhere else? You have to come back with us, you're frozen, you'll die if you stay here."

It occurred to Jarrod that Audra spoke more truth than she perhaps realized. Even if they succeeded in getting Heath out of this forest alive, if he stayed in this frozen place of grief and self-condemnation he would die anyway. _If I'd seen at the time,_ Jarrod asked himself, _if Heath could've grieved for both of them, with us, together – it doesn't diminish the loss, the horror of what happened, but at least he wouldn't have been alone with it._ Jarrod suddenly found himself remembering one morning last year, talking with his mother at breakfast. He had commented on the number of letters that Heath seemed to be sending and receiving, and joked that he was feeling like Heath's personal courier to the Stockton post office. He saw that lifeline to Rivka and Hadassah now in a very different light.

They had the frozen shirt off and a few dry blankets wrapped around Heath now. He wasn't fighting Audra off anymore, in fact he seemed to have given himself over to her, and as they sat him up, he laid his head on her shoulder and let her wrap her arms around him. Sombra swung her head around to look at Heath. She breathed into Audra's white-blond hair, and Audra stroked her face and murmured praise and gratitude. Jarrod came around to the horse's head and offered his hand. She lipped at his open palm, and allowed him to run his hand over her neck. Then she nudged again at Heath, as if trying to push him closer to her.

"Audra, do you think she'd carry Heath back over?" Jarrod wondered aloud. "Be easy enough to get him on her back, with her lying down."

"I think she will, I'm sure of it. I can ride behind him. She still has that lead line, if we need it." She leaned back a bit to look at Heath. "Heath, we're bringing you home," she said definitively. "You're coming home with us, and no backtalk. Do you understand me?"

He didn't speak, he just looked at her, searching, unsure, so sad. Still so far away. But he nodded and let his head rest again on her shoulder.

She and Jarrod shifted him over onto Sombra's neck, and without too much difficulty had him astride. Audra climbed on behind him, holding Heath against her with one arm, and gripping Sombra's mane with the other.

"OK, Sombra, up-up," she said, leaning forward for balance, anticipating a lurching transition. The mare, however, rose to her feet so smoothly Audra barely had to adjust her seat. Jarrod handed Audra Sombra's dangling lead line, mounted Jingo, and led Nike across to where the others were waiting. Sombra followed, calm and steady, carrying her two riders back across the river as though she had borne them always.


	26. Chapter 26 - Crossing Over

_Oh, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt,_  
 _Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew –_

 _William Shakespeare_  
 _"Hamlet"_

* * *

 _Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o'er wrought heart and bids it break._

 _William Shakespeare_  
 _"Macbeth"_

* * *

The torches threw dancing light over the trunks of the pines, so that the forest moved and refracted in his bleary vision. He was glad for Audra's warm arm holding him steady as she rode behind him, as otherwise the combined sway of the horse and the dance of the trees would have sent him sliding to the ground in short order. The breathing, bubbling sound of the river was falling behind them as Sombra carried them gracefully forward over a carpet of pine needles.

Feeling slowly returned to his body; first, as an awareness of the slide of the rough wool blankets over his bare chest, then pressing outward into his burning skin, and beginning to invade his arms and legs with an aching, bone deep pain. His thoughts were rambling, blurry and sad. He loved his sister, and he feared for her. He could feel the heat from her body against his back. She was so brave and good, and he was so frozen, and he wondered if maybe he was so cold he would pull all the warmth out of her and then she might freeze. He raised his head with the idea of telling her this, but the movement made him suddenly dizzy. He groped for a handhold to balance himself with numb, clumsy fingers. Audra just held him tighter and quietly spoke warm, good words into his ear. He heard her laugh softly, just for him.

"Heath, look who's giving us a ride. Isn't she amazing? She found you, Heath. She found you and tried to keep you warm until we came. I knew she had gone looking for you, and look, she helped us bring you back. And doesn't everything always look better from the back of a horse?"

Even blurry and confused, Heath had to laugh at that, because he'd had exactly the same thought during many bad moments in his life, and he absolutely agreed with her. He tipped his head back against her shoulder so he could see her face. She looked at him and they shared a sad smile.

"Thanks for coming to get me, sis." He couldn't remember exactly all of what he'd said or did, or even how he'd ended up there on that river bank, but he knew what he had been feeling and remembering. And what with him half-conscious, frozen, and his mind already ripped full of holes and flapping in the breeze, well, it only followed that what he had been feeling had spilled out all over, and Audra'd had to wade in deep to get to him.

She leaned her forehead against his. "Heath," she whispered, "I'm so sorry about your Mama and your Aunt Rachael. I wish I had known them. I wish I had seen how much you were grieving for them. I know they loved you so much. I can feel it. It's what you're made of."

He pulled back slightly so he could look into her eyes. She was not crying. She spoke gravely and with absolute conviction; if he wasn't so groggy he might even think she was looking a little argumentative. He couldn't speak. Her words wrapped around him like her strong arms, keeping him steady and reminding him _warmth still exists_ , even if he could only just barely feel it on his skin. Guilt and failure moved in him; ice floes breaking and rejoining, piling upon each other, filling his chest, his throat.

He felt tears on his face and he bowed his head. Audra hugged him tight and kissed him on the cheek, and he couldn't help but glance up at her and smile. "Audra," he murmured. "Ain't the first time you've brought me back from the dead."

* * *

As soon as it was clear to Smith that Audra and Jarrod were safely on their way back across the river with their brother, he caught Frank's eye and gestured with his head back toward the trail. "Let's us get a move on back there. We got a fire to build to warm up that kid, and a big mess to clean up in the middle of the road."

"Not to mention a horse to bury, three bodies to collect, and two swamp rats to bring back to the valley."

"Now that you mention it, I think maybe Jinks will be digging that hole for the horse, good idea."

Marshal Smith was an observant man. He had watched closely as Audra initially tried to tend to Heath where he lay by the black horse. He couldn't hear much of what had been said, but it was clear to him that Heath was turning away from her, resisting her help; that though he was obviously in great emotional and physical distress he did not at first want her to bring him away to safety. John wondered why. It seemed an important thing to know. He found himself thinking back to the conversations he and Heath had had over the last several days, and the questions that had come to him during the ride home after their run-in with Jasper.

 _John didn't know – and couldn't really imagine - what experiences of Hell Heath carried with him. These catastrophic shards of memory had become un-anchored, reactive, destructive. John did not know how anyone would go about taking hold of such lacerating fragments, handling them and fitting them together into a mosaic of coherent meaning, but it seemed to him without that, the shrapnel would continue to do its damage, and his friend would die._

Even now, Death continued to bargain, pressing Heath with strong arguments. John could sense this. He worried that Heath would decide that the family and Rivka would be better off without him, insulated from the violence of his history and unburdened of his difficulties. Set against this, on the other side of the scale, was the love and care and commitment that bound him to Rivka and to his family. There was also the joy Heath had found in his work and his life with this family, but he was weary and beaten down from the constant intrusion of fear and memory and sadness, and such joy was often buffeted far from his reach. He was in desperate need of some respite, and John well knew Death always kept _that_ offer in his back pocket, in case he needed to sweeten the pot.

Still, Heath was stubborn. He was a survivor. And there was that pride.

John found himself arriving at the same nagging thought.

 _Death seems too confident. Death should not be finding an easy win at this table._

The image came to him again: Heath turning away from Audra's hand. She had reached him, finally, but clearly, in that moment, Heath wanted to die – or thought he should die? Where _was_ that stubborn pride? Death should have folded his hand for this round and shuffled embarrassed out the door by now, yet John sensed him leaning in, sensing vulnerability, still very much in the game.

He was relieved beyond measure that they had found Heath, apparently in one piece. Checking himself, John was fairly sure he had a tight grip on his desire to kill those two swamp rats as soon as they got back to the trail. He was certain Frank and the Barkley kids felt the same, to varying degrees. He was glad he and Frank were there to clean up the mess and take custody of the rustlers, living and dead, because it allowed Jarrod and Nick and Audra to just be with their brother and take care of each other.

Smith looked back for a moment to see Nick climb up on Nike. As he watched, Nick and Jarrod rode up close on either side of the big black, and the four siblings moved together away from the river. He saw Audra give Heath a kiss, and the brief flash of a smile she got in response. Smith nodded to himself, satisfied for now. With those four at the table, he suspected Death might not be so confident after all.


	27. Chapter 27 - Words on the Shore

_Ô terre, dont la brume efface les sommets,_

 _Suis-je le spectre, et toi la tombe?_

 _Ai-je donc vidé tout, vie, amour, joie, espoir?_

 _J'attends, je demande, j'implore;_

 _Je penche tour à tour mes urnes pour avoir_

 _De chacune une goutte encore!_

 _Comme le souvenir est voisin du remord!_

 _Comme à pleurer tout nous ramène!_

 _Et que je te sens froide en te touchant, ô mort,_

 _Noir verrou de la porte humaine!_

 _Et je pense, écoutant gémir le vent amer,_

 _Et l'onde aux plis infranchissables;_

 _L'été rit, et l'on voit sur le bord de la mer_

 _Fleurir le chardon bleu des sables._

* * *

 _Earth, whose summits fogs and mists hang o'er,_

 _Am I a ghost? — art thou the grave?_

 _Have I exhausted all life, love, hope, joy? —_

 _I ask, implore, I listen, wait;_

 _And lean o'er all my urns to see if I_

 _Can find one drop my thirst to sate._

 _How is remorse akin to memory!_

 _How everything to tears leads back!_

 _How cold, Death! I feel thy touch when nigh -_

 _Bolt of life's portal, dread and black._

 _Then, as I listen to the wind's chill roar,_

 _And the waves countless ripple on the strand,_

 _I think — yet summer smiles upon this shore,_

 _And thistles blue — still blossom on the sand._

 _Victor Hugo_

 _"Paroles sur le Dune"_

 _August 5th 1854_.

* * *

Nick jumped off Nike and strode toward Sombra, intent on retrieving his brother. She glowered at him, lowering her head and sidestepping to prevent him access to the two riders. He stopped in front of her and looked her in the eye, hands on his hips.

"Listen, you giant beast, just you settle down. Move aside. I'm getting my brother."

A long, tense moment passed as neither moved nor broke eye contact. Then Sombra relented and allowed Nick to come alongside, though she watched him carefully.

Jarrod let go the breath he had been holding, laughed, and shook his head. Audra smiled down at Nick, her eyes twinkling.

"You're such a sweet-talker, Nick. Who could resist you."

"Alright, alright -" he muttered. He tilted his head back to look up at the two. " _Damn_ , this is a big horse." Her withers were just about at his eye level, and Nick was a tall man. He regarded Heath, who was slumped, shivering, in Audra's arms, eyes closed, his chin on his chest.

"He was awake for just a minute back there -"

"Just let him slide off down to me. I'll catch him."

Heath woke as Nick set his bare feet on the ground, holding him up with both arms and several blankets wrapped around him. He blinked up at his brother, frowning in confusion.

"Nick...? What are - where - where the d-devil did you come from?"

"I seem to be getting that question a lot this evening," Nick grinned.

"B-but - who... Who'd y-you leave w-w-ith that herd? Nick, all those new g-guys, they don't know what they're d-doing yet. That bunch'll p-p-probably bring that ca-cattle down to the wrong ranch -"

He was shivering so badly Nick could barely keep a hold of him or understand what he was saying. "Heath. Heath, it's handled, ok, it's not a problem. You're frozen and don't have any shoes on, I don't think you need to worry about a few head of cattle right now. Let's get you over by the fire."

"And w-what ab-bout the – the -"

"Heath. Shut up."

Jarrod then appeared on the other side to assist, an amused look in his face. Heath, now relying entirely on Nick to stay upright, shut his mouth and looked groggily back and forth between them.

"C'mon, little brother."

The three moved toward the blazing fire John and Frank had built on an area of flat terrain beside the trail. Heath had to concentrate fiercely just to get his numb feet and legs to follow his directions. They came back into view of the colossal mess in and around the overturned cart, now illuminated in the firelight. Nick gave a low whistle of disbelief. "What was that you were saying yesterday about how I didn't need to keep an eye on you, Heath?"

Heath looked up from his stupid feet, and promptly stumbled and almost fell. Jarrod caught him quickly. Heath grimaced, glanced up at Nick, and then muttered to Jarrod, "D-damn it, I hate w-when he's right."

" _You_ do? How much grief do you think _I'm_ going to get over this? I'm never going to hear the end of it."

Heath considered this point, his brows drawn down as he struggled to concentrate. "You're r-right," he agreed sympathetically. "You w-won't. Sorry 'bout that."

They reached the fire, and Nick helped Heath down onto a pile of blankets, sitting behind him so he could keep his arms around him and provide some more warmth. He could feel how cold Heath was even through the wool blankets wrapped around him. He could only imagine how sore the boy was going to be come morning, what with all the shivering, and covered with bruises besides. But he was alive, thank God.

Audra filled a pot beside the blazing fire and boiled water for coffee, while Nick and Jarrod helped Heath into some dry clothes. Once that task was completed and Heath was wrapped up in blankets once more, Jarrod stepped away to collect other necessary items from the wreckage and check on the two marshals. Audra brought over a steaming cup and knelt in front of Heath. He was staring at Sombra, whom Audra had tethered nearby with the other horses, but his eyes were vacant.

"Heath." He turned to her, but his reaction was sluggish. She could see it was taking an effort for him to focus on her words. "Heath, here's something warm to drink. You want Nick to help you?"

He didn't answer. He looked at the cup, and then he looked at her, and was at once submerged in the memory of his mother's face. He saw her blond hair, her worried smile; her blue eyes so sad, and gentle, and strong. Mama wading into the river to get him. Mama telling him goodbye as he brought the old bible to her bedside.

The moment Audra met his gaze she knew who it was he saw; she could see the wave of remorse that rose in him and brought tears to his eyes. "I…I'm -" he started to say.

Much as Audra wanted to hug him, and mother him, and chase his guilt and sadness away, she sensed what Heath needed right now was clarity; he needed a solid stake in the ground to hold on to. She interrupted him, speaking definitively. "Heath. It's Audra. Look at me." He did, blinking, seeming now to see her for the first time. He took a breath, glancing around anxiously as though to orient himself. "You need to drink something warm, you're freezing. Nick will help you." She glanced up at Nick to make sure he was paying attention, and handed the cup up to him. Nick raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

"I'll explain later."

In his own way, and working with far less information, Nick was also puzzling through what to do with this busted up brother of his. Heath was cold and pale still, and he definitely needed Nick's help holding the cup of coffee, as it would either fall from his senseless fingers or spill from his shaking. He admitted to a pounding headache, probably from a bundle of roofing shingles that had landed on his head. Otherwise, physically, Heath was more or less in one piece, he just needed some warming up.

Nick was urgently hoping Heath's mental state would similarly improve as his body temperature came back to normal. At the moment though, so far, Heath seemed to Nick to be disturbingly distant, sad, and preoccupied; his thinking was sluggish; and his attention was unstable and meandering.

Despite all that, based on what he knew of his brother, Nick was one hundred percent certain of one thing: Heath was going to want to pack up what he could tomorrow and continue on his way to Strawberry.

He helped Heath swallow down some more coffee, and leaned forward to prod the fire with a long branch. The two marshals were still busy cleaning up. Jarrod appeared to be exchanging some words with that vermin Jasper. With an effort, Nick turned his thoughts away from what violence he'd like to do to that guy, and kept his attention on his chilly brother.

He and Heath watched somberly as Smith tied a rope around Digger. The marshal mounted his own horse and wrapped the free end of the rope around the horn of his saddle. He then began the slow process of dragging the horse free of the wreckage and toward the grave that Jinks was excavating beside the trail under Frank's watchful eye.

"He was a good horse," Nick reminisced. "Y'know, Digger was my saddle horse for a while when I was a kid, before I got Coco. He always did seem to do better under harness, though. I think it made him feel tough."

The two men shared a mournful laugh. "Yeah, I noticed that about him," Heath agreed. "He'd want to put in that extra effort just to show off." Heath looked away sadly, then pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. His eye fell on Jasper, now trussed up and complaining at the far side of the trail, and Nick followed his gaze.

"Jasper shot Digger just to drop him on me. Digger knew - he knew I was tangled up behind him. He tried so hard not to fall on me -" Breaking off, Heath stared into the fire, anger and remorse pounding dully in his head. Grief piled on grief. He waited until he had some control over his voice. "He was a good horse. He truly was. I couldn't – I woulda put him down myself if I could. I don't know how long he lay there like that. Finally Jasper asked if I wanted him to – to -" He couldn't look at Nick, but stared in shame at the ground. "I couldn't even take care of that. He deserved better."

Sitting in the midst of this mess, Heath felt like he had become a walking plague, a blight on the well-being of the people and animals around him. It seemed to be getting harder and harder to shake off that feeling; it was heavier and more opaque each time it settled over him. He watched Sombra as she shifted her weight to one hip and dozed with the other horses. He remembered the feeling of his hands in her coarse mane, and felt a pull like the current of that cold river: _just stay, just lay yourself down and stay_. Heath shifted restlessly and grimaced, groaning under his breath. _No_. _I promised. I promised Rivka I wouldn't give up._

"What is it?"

 _Just get to Hannah. Fix her roof. Don't have to think any further ahead than that. Just go do something useful, you can do that at least, even if your mind is busted beyond repair._

"Why is getting warm more painful than freezing in the first place? My _bones_ hurt." he muttered. "I gotta get up, maybe that'll help – where're my boots?"

Heath was looking more alert, that was good, Nick thought, but he was also becoming restless and irritable, his mood an unsettled mix of anger, guilt, and despair. Like a compass needle, Heath's eyes kept turning back to Sombra, and the wreckage of the wagon. Nick imagined he could almost see the gears turning in his brother's head, slowly at first, but starting to mesh and move in a direction that Nick sensed might not be good.

Nick's first impulse was usually a head-on collision: he would plant himself squarely in his brother's path and make him come back home immediately. But something was nudging him in another direction. Nick knew he was usually the last one in the family to "get it" when subtleties of emotion and relationships are involved. Even when his own loud, opinionated gut informed him he was missing something important – as it was right now – he didn't always listen right away. And when it came to Heath – well, he could be even more obtuse. One thing was clear – right now even Audra seemed to understand more of what was going on with Heath than he did, and that just couldn't stand.

Nick figured he'd try something different. And he did know that he usually got the most information from Heath when they were working and busy with something.

"Heath. How long until sunrise?"

Heath stopped his fidgeting to think for a moment. "Three and a half hours."

"Don't you think we oughta get some sleep before we pack up this mess and head to Strawberry?"

Heath turned to look at Nick in surprise.

"We?"

"Or if you really don't think you can sleep, we'll get your boots, and we can start salvaging things right now. I didn't think you'd want to tackle flipping the wagon until it's light."

"No, I definitely want to check the axles in the daylight – but - who's _we_?"

"I'm going with you. With Jarrod, and Audra."

"What? Why?"

"Because it's important. To you. And also," he continued, when Heath tried to interrupt, "because I've never met Hannah either."

Heath just frowned slightly in confusion, unsure of what to say. _It's important to you_. He could agree with that. That was true. But his thinking and his reactions had become so rudderless and chaotic, Heath just felt lost. It _was_ important, but how, or why, or where he went next, he didn't know. He just wanted to keep moving. Maybe he'd stay in Strawberry for the winter, and look after Hannah. Maybe that would help him pull himself back together -

Nick pulled him back from his wandering thoughts. "Heath. It's alright, boy, we're gonna help you get wherever it is you need to go. Look, here comes Jarrod with your boots, and it looks like he's retrieved that lovely boot knife of yours that Jasper stole while you were unconscious. Audra has cooked up some kind of food, let's hope it's edible – and our two marshals look like they're ready to ship the swamp rats down to the Stockton jail."

"You're looking a little more conscious," Jarrod commented as he handed Heath his boots and knife.

"Thanks – I think."

"Jasper was complimenting you on what a good liar you are, Heath," Jarrod said, amused.

"I barely remember what I said to him. I was mainly focused on not drowning."

"What are you talking about, Jarrod?" Nick was curious.

"Heath apparently convinced Jasper that he had been disowned by our family and was being exiled back to Strawberry, and if Jasper let him live, he'd help him steal some of our best breeding stock. Jasper quoted him as saying something like, _C'mon, nobody really thought this would last, did they_?" Jarrod sat down next to Heath. He smiled at him, but his eyes were sad. "I, for one, am relieved beyond words that you convinced him, Heath. I just worry because I suspect that lie came a little too easily."

"I won't deny that," Heath said, speaking to the ground, "but you gotta remember, I grew up with people like Jasper. Dirt poor scavengers. He already thought y'all were crazy to take me in in the first place. I just told him he was right."

"Heath Barkley, you'd better not believe that. Don't you _dare_. Not for one second."

"Audra, it w –"

"Do you hear me? Not for one second. I'll clobber you. We're crazy to take you in? Oh, you make me so _mad_ sometimes!" She actually stomped her foot for emphasis, and Heath had to smile.

"I would have loved to have known you when you were little, Sis," he said affectionately, and she narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, not wanting to be defused too quickly.

He then looked gravely at all three of them, worried now that they were hurt or offended. "I want to say – I know it's a lie. I don't believe that of any of you. I know how much you've done – how much you're still doing – to get me home."

"Of course we did! And so did you," Nick interjected.

Jarrod nodded agreement. "That's true, Heath. You might feel like you're losing ground, or maybe you feel you're a burden, but _we_ see how you fight to stay, fight to survive – fight to get back to us. We see your strength."

Heath looked bleakly around him. "Strength, huh?" He shook his head skeptically. "Looks like a big goddamn mess to me. You all could be sleeping at home in your nice beds right now if it weren't for –"

"You can just stop right there with that line of thinking, young man," John barked, walking up with Frank close behind.

Surprised, Heath mouth snapped shut and he looked up at the marshal. Smith was scowling, gloved hands on his hips. "This _mess_ –" Smith pointed around them, "this mess, as you call it, is entirely the responsibility of that cockroach over there with the broken legs. And let's not forget: the reason Jasper came after you in the first place was because you stopped him from robbing and killing a man. You stopped him this time from killing your brother and your sister. _He_ shot your horse, and damn near drowned you. So let's assign guilt where guilt is due. You understand me?" Heath nodded mutely. Smith was smoldering. "I wish he _was_ a cockroach," he muttered to himself. "He'd have some extra legs to break."

Frank patted John's shoulder reassuringly with a grim smile. "It'll work out, Marshal. We still have to get that cockroach all the way back to Stockton. I imagine he's at least going to _feel_ like he's got six broken legs by the time we get there." He winked at Heath, who was looking bewildered at the rapid-fire commentary coming at him from all directions.

Frank came over to kneel beside him companionably and put a hand on his shoulder. "Son, you just let these three help get this buggy back on its wheels and loaded up, and get on up there to see Hannah. Kinda wish I was going with ya, her cornbread is somethin' else." He grew serious. Leaning back, he looked thoughtfully at Heath for a moment. "Y'know, with all what was going on over there in Nevada, I just realized, I never told you in person – I mean - that was the first time I seen ya since your Mama died. And then losing Rachael right after. My Lord, son, I am so sorry for your loss. That must have been so hard. You know I was thinkin' about ya."

Jarrod was not missing a word, but he was watching Nick, whose eyes widened and grew preoccupied as he listened to the exchange.

Heath smiled sadly and nodded. "Thanks, Frank. I know you were."

"Hannah's gonna be crazy happy to see you, I bet," Frank said, squeezing his shoulder. He looked over at Sombra. "Now _that_ is a very big, very beautiful horse. Never seen one like 'er. John says she's some kind of special breed? Looking at her now, you'd never think she was all skinny and beat up and crazy when Audra brought her home. She kinda sounds like you, Heath," Frank said, grinning at him. "Maybe your sister can work some of that mojo on you."

Heath chuckled in spite of himself, shaking his head. "Oh, she's workin' on me, all right, Frank. All three of 'em workin' on me. No doubt about that."


	28. Chapter 28 - The River Floweth On

_What bring they 'neath the midnight,_

 _Beside the River-sea?_

 _They bring the human heart wherein_

 _No nightly calm can be;_

 _That droppeth never with the wind,_

 _Nor drieth with the dew;_

 _O calm it, God; thy calm is broad_

 _To cover spirits too._

 _The_ _river floweth on._

 _Elizabeth_ _Barrett Browning_

 _"A Romance of the Ganges", 1838_

 _Certain_ _thoughts are prayers. There are moments when, whatever be the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knee._

 _Victor_ _Hugo_

 _Les_ _Miserables Chapter IV. "A Heart beneath a Stone"_

As it turned out, Audra had cooked up a decent pot of chili and rice to feed the exhausted group. They divided up the watch, and all managed to get a few hours' sleep before morning. Smith deliberately chose the last shift, as he expected Heath would be up and around at that point, and he wanted a chance to see how he was doing before he headed back down the trail with Frank.

He didn't have long to wait. John relieved Jarrod and sent him off to catch a little more rest, and then stoked the fire and heated up some coffee. A few minutes later, he saw Heath up and moving silently along the edge of the campsite. As John watched, Heath brought each of the horses some water and a scoop of grain from a gunnysack they had packed in the buckboard; they had a small herd of eleven horses with them now, having retrieved the six mounts Jasper had stolen in Sonora. Heath was clearly stiff and in pain at first, and moved slowly with a pronounced limp. As he carried over one bucket after another, though, he seemed to limber up, and was moving somewhat more easily by the time he completed his task.

Heath then walked slowly through the spread of scattered supplies that they would gather up come sunrise. He was looking for something. He knelt when he found what he sought, extracting the longbow and bundle of arrows from beneath some sacks of seed and rice. By the fire, he examined them for damage, then came over to sit by John where he had stationed himself outside the circle of light.

"Mornin'. You get some rest?" he said softly once he was close, not wanting to wake their companions.

"Yeah, thank goodness. Didn't like the idea of traveling with those two criminals on no sleep, not to mention with all those horses. You?"

Heath smiled briefly. "Yeah, I did, actually." He looked surprised. "It's funny – I'm glad Nick's here. So now I'm bringing all three of them to visit Hannah. And visit my home town. Not like the place is something to be proud of. I'm not sure why I'm happy about it, but there it is."

"Makes sense to me," John said. "There's a whole lot about you they don't know, Heath. I know there's things you don't want to share with them, that'll take time – but they don't even know about your family, the people who raised you, and they have had no idea how you've been grieving this whole year. From what I've heard from Jarrod, they didn't tell Audra anything about Rachael's death. And the rest of them, to varying degrees, didn't want to know because they were just trying to cope with the idea of you, and the patriarch's fall from his pedestal."

Heath looked slightly stunned, as John's words abruptly took his picture of his life with this Barkley family and turned it sideways. He had brief feeling of vertigo, and then the certain sense that he was about to see all kinds of things he'd been blind to before.

"I mean, think about it," John went on. "Think about how you felt with Frank saying what he did about Hannah, and Rachael, and your Mama. I could see you felt better. Nothing takes away the pain of losing the ones we love, believe me, I know, but being alone with it – invisible with it – with your own family? That's gonna make you crazy. Maybe these Barkleys weren't ready to know you when you dropped out of the sky and onto the ranch," - Heath smiled at that - "but they sure are now, as far as I can see. And you – well, you need that. Don't you think?"

"Not just them that wasn't ready," Heath said quietly. He looked up the trail toward Strawberry. "I been running away from it all this time. Haven't been able to face how much I miss them, or how angry I am at myself for how I failed her. Failed all of them."

An understanding snapped into place for John as a big piece of the puzzle came clear.

"Failed them? How?"

"I should have been there to take care of my Mama when she was so sick. I should have been there to protect Rachael from Matt and Martha. They killed her to get at me, while I was off in that big house. And because of me now Hannah is all alone." He spoke softly. "I'm not the one to be comforted. It was my fault."

 _Oh, boy_ , John thought, once again picturing Heath turning away from Audra's hand. Keeping Death in the game. _So that's what it is._

John had a strong urge to jump all over this boy's misplaced guilt and anger with a harangue that would dwarf the talking to he had given Heath last night. With an effort, he suppressed that impulse, at least for now. He thought of Rivka.

"You know, Heath, there was a stretch of several days when you had pneumonia in that prison, when we didn't know if you were going to live or die. One of those days I was sitting by you, thinking my heart would break if you didn't pull through. I felt it was my fault that you were dying. Twice I brought you to that prison, and twice you almost died. You trusted me. It was my responsibility to keep you safe, and I thought I knew what the dangers were, but I was wrong. I failed you."

Heath was very still, listening.

"Rivka was with me. She knew what I was feeling as though I had spoken it aloud. I'm guessing you know what she said to me, because I suspect she's had to say the same to you."

Heath met his gaze. "She reminded you that men can be monsters. That the fault lies with those that have chosen to do evil."

"Yes, exactly. And she said, _do not waste your energy on condemning yourself_. She is wise, your Rivka. I would add that we all make mistakes and are not always there for each other as we might want to be. It's healthy to be angry with yourself from time to time, right? But laying the full weight of the blame on yourself for the crimes of someone like Matt and Martha Simmons? That leads nowhere good, it is a waste of energy, and brings peace to no one. It does nothing to honor the memory of Leah or Rachael. In fact it perpetuates the evil that was done to your family."

Heath put his head in his hands. "I understand – I do. But I can't seem to hold on to it."

"Well, you've got some good company, if you're willing to let those three keep reminding you, because I think you're going to need to practice. And another thing – I got thinking about this last night when Frank was going on about Hannah and her cornbread. He's the one person here who's known you the longest, who knew your family, who could see your loss without you having to explain. One of the first things you told me when I came here was how much Rivka helped you feel steady and get stronger, and you were afraid to rely too much on her. But why wouldn't you want to have people around – like Rivka - who love you and have known you most of your life, especially when you're going through a hard time? That's when you need them the most. That's not weakness, Heath, that's just _normal_. I don't think you should keep her at a distance. Or this Barkley family, though they've got some catching up to do, no doubt." John smiled at him. "I'd kinda like to meet Hannah myself, though maybe you'll succeed in convincing her to come down to the ranch for a visit."

"I sure hope so," Heath said. His expression was thoughtful, even a little bit hopeful. "Right now I'm not thinkin' much beyond just getting there and fixing a few things, make myself useful. And trying to keep my thinking going in a straight line as much as possible. My head feels about like that buckboard over there – no wheels on the ground and everything scattered all over."

"I think you have the right idea, son. One thing at a time. Soon as your brothers and sister are up, I think that wagon, at least, will be back on the trail in short order. In the meantime, though, I could use your help putting together a travois to drag Jasper and his busted legs back down the mountain. How about it?"

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

It wasn't exactly "short order", but by early afternoon, the four siblings had the buckboard wheels on the ground and the salvageable supplies packed up, and they were now standing in a loose semicircle regarding the untangled harness and the broken left-hand shaft. Jarrod shook his head in disbelief.

"You mean to say that thing snapped and hit you? Ouch."

"You ain't foolin'," Heath agreed, wincing as he rubbed his chest with one hand. "Knocked me flat on my back."

"Way I see it, we got two questions," Nick said. "How to patch this rig together so it can be attached to a horse, and then which horse is gonna pull this loaded wagon the rest of the way uphill."

"As far as which horse," Audra weighed in, "Sombra's got the strength, but we haven't come close to trying her with a harness. Not to mention she's had some pretty terrible experiences lately with those men trying to force her to pull."

"Audra, why don't we try what we did with the saddle and ride on either side of her. We can at least try the harness on and see how she feels about that, and Nick and Jarrod can maybe rig up something to replace the shaft. I kinda think if she's got Jingo and Nike to keep her company, she'll be willing to do just about anything."

After a few false starts – the harness was just barely big enough to be adjusted to Sombra's size – they were underway up the mountain, Heath and Audra riding a close escort on either side, Jarrod driving the cart, and Nick riding alongside on Coco. Jarrod marveled at the change in Sombra's demeanor. She was moving along effortlessly, as though the buckboard was weightless and all was well with the world. Her calm was infectious, and Jarrod sensed that he and his three siblings were more relaxed and at ease than they had been in some time. It felt right to him that they were all four together on this trek. There was so much over this past year that had been fragmented; stories untold, histories unbridged to the present and future, experiences unseen and unexpressed. With this trip, it was as though they were traveling to meet their brother again for the first time, and he them.


	29. Chapter 29 - Hannah

_There is a determined though unseen bravery that defends itself foot by foot in the darkness against the fatal invasions of necessity and dishonesty. Noble and mysterious triumphs that no eye sees, and no fame rewards, and no flourish of triumph salutes. Life, misfortunes, isolation, abandonment, poverty, are battlefields that have their heroes; obscure heroes, sometimes greater than the illustrious heroes._

 _Victor Hugo_

 _Les Misérables_

The brisk hammering of a woodpecker echoed through the forest of oak and pine, and Hannah, smiling, paused in her work to see if she could spot the bird. Woodpeckers always amused her; they were one of the many creatures that reminded her that God had a sense of humor. How else could there be such a thing? – an animal that got her food by banging her head against a tree so hard and fast it was a blur to a human eye – and then flying off pretty as you please like nothing unusual had happened.

Hannah was working in her garden. It was a small patch of ground that had been cleared of trees, and got enough sunlight during the short Sierra growing season to produce some sustenance. Today she was digging up the last of the potatoes, and tilling the rest of the plot. Hannah thought of it as tucking the garden in for a good winter sleep.

She was lean and still strong, though she didn't rightly know her own age. A few times, Rachael and Leah tried to work it out by what Hannah could remember, but the closest they could get is that she was born sometime between 1818 and 1823, making her somewhere around 56 years old. Hannah had always been a small girl, petite and young-looking, so that even into her teens she looked like a child. Hoping to protect her daughter from the auction block, predatory white men, and hard labor, Hannah's mama took advantage of her childlike appearance and kept changing her birthday to obscure her age. Hannah was blessed to be able to stay with her parents throughout her childhood, but the time came when her adulthood was seen and treated as the financial asset it was, given her skills as a cook and a seamstress, and being strong and healthy for outdoor work as well. She was sold and taken far away, north to a plantation in Kentucky, and she never saw her parents again.

It was on this plantation that she bore her only child, Asa, at the age of 20. He was big, strong boy for his age, and he was torn from her arms and sold at the age of 8. She was never told where he was sent or who bought him. She became crazed. She was beaten frequently, ate little, and was about to be sold off as damaged goods to some hellish fate way down river. Much of that year remained lost to her memory, but **_that_** threat sank into her like a hook and yanked her back to life. She was in Kentucky. One state north was Ohio, and freedom. She was in Hell, but she remembered that there were worse places. It was possible to go deeper into Hell, and she chose not to. She decided to live, and she decided to escape.

Hannah made it across to Ohio in 1847, somewhere around the age of 29, and made her way west with the Gold Rush of '49. Skills such as hers were in demand in the mining camps. She kept to herself, traveled alone, and needed little to survive – she kept moving, from one boomtown to the next, no clear idea where she might end up, just putting more and more miles between her and the place where her family had been ripped away from her.

Hitching a ride on a supply cart, Hannah rolled into Strawberry one day in 1851 and went looking for work at the local hotel. She cooked in the kitchen there for a short time, but found working for the Simmons was far too much like being a slave. They seemed to feel they had a right to much more than just the labor for which the employee was paid; it seemed the help was expected also to bear the brunt of the couple's drunkenness and violent moods. Martha raised her hand to Hannah once, after a customer complained about a meal. Hannah quit right there and then, much preferring to scrounge for food around her shack in the woods than work for someone who thought they could hit her. She was a capable scavenger; she went for a whole week once just eating nuts from the cones of the ubiquitous Digger pines.

Martha did not take this dismissal well, and became threatening and enraged. As Hannah turned to leave the kitchen, Martha's drunken advance was deflected by a very pretty young mother, whose charming little blond toddler Hannah had seen out on the edge of town laughing and playing with a dark-haired woman.

"Relax, Martha, Hannah won't have time to work here anymore anyway. She's going to be working with Rachael as a seamstress, isn't that right Hannah?"

"That's absolutely right, uh –"

" _Leah,"_ she mouthed, her back to Martha.

"- uh, _Leah_ , yes, that's true. Gonna get started jes' as soon as possible. Good day, Miz Simmons."

Hannah turned to look at the small cabin, empty now, feeling the absence of her dear friends. There had been so much love in that little house, sometimes it seemed it would burst the walls.

Heath had done most of the clearing for this garden, over the years, starting when he was just barely big enough to manage an axe and a saw. Once he was older he took on the harder work of pulling the stumps, so the plot could be tilled properly. There were many years this garden kept the four of them alive, when times were really tough and they couldn't buy enough to eat. Rachael and Leah would join her in the planting and weeding and harvesting…but now it was just her, and she didn't need much. Heath had made sure she had money for what she did need. She liked growing her own food – but what she really missed was the family she had fed with this garden.

Returning to her collecting of potatoes, Hannah glanced from time to time toward the path that led up from the main trail, watching for Heath. He had written that he was coming up for a visit – Mary, the schoolmistress, had brought her the letter a few days ago.

Hannah was worried for Heath, and was feeling a bit impatient to see him. It had been a strange summer of unsettling news and ugly rumors. Hannah had no one with whom to talk or confide, now that Rachael and Leah were gone – and while she still talked with them often and at length, anyway, those conversations did not calm her fears over what she heard around town.

Hannah had never learned to read well. Rachael had taught her some, but she still found newspapers very difficult to decipher. Over the summer the papers – and thus the gossip around the saloon and the hotel and the general store – were full of news about the "Barkley bastard"; the horrific crimes he was thought to have committed; the strident calls for his lynching; and the manhunt that pursued him all over the eastern slopes of the Sierra.

Of course all of Strawberry now knew who the "Barkley bastard" was. His whole life, Heath had been "Leah Thomson's bastard", and had he quietly left town to join the Barkley family, it might be that no one would have made the connection. Unfortunately, the trial and conviction of Matt and Martha Simmons for the murder of Rachael Caulfield, and their attempt to extort Victoria Barkley, was huge news, especially in such a small, sickly town. There had been widespread jealousy, resentment and suspicion at what appeared to be Heath's good fortune – and just as much enthusiastic glee and righteous satisfaction when, a year later, they heard the mongrel upstart was being hunted in the hills like a rabid dog.

No one noticed Hannah as she went about the town. When she was a child, her father had told her that's how it went. He told her if she kept quiet and did her work, she would be invisible to white folks. He told her to _use_ that being invisible, and keep her eyes and ears open.

"That way you learn what they're about, and keep you and yours safe as best you can," her father had said. But what she heard of her neighbor's thoughts and feelings regarding the boy she loved as her own – well, it was disturbing and dark. There were nights when she couldn't stop imagining what might be happening with him, being there in prison and all, or alone and on the run. On those nights, nightmares would come to her that she hadn't had in years.

Then, in the fall, the newspapers stopped reporting on the Barkley affair. All Hannah had to go on for a while was the mean-minded speculation about Heath's downfall that bubbled through the town. Finally, a month ago, she got a letter from Heath, saying he was safe at home in Stockton. She should have been able to stop worrying at that point, but she didn't. She was still all-overish and unsettled when it came to her thoughts about that boy, and she was certain something wasn't right.

Heath said in his next letter that he was coming to Strawberry with Jarrod and Audra. She remembered Jarrod Barkley: the oldest brother, the lawyer. He was a righteous man, Hannah felt that strongly. He was determined to do the right thing in handling Rachael's estate, such as it was. When Rachael was killed, Hannah became crazed again for a while, overcome with grief. She remembered meeting Victoria Barkley, but her memory of that day was unclear. Hannah had been more or less back in her right mind by the time Heath brought Jarrod to see her the first time.

Jarrod was a righteous man, and he had been so polite and respectful, but he didn't quite _see_ her. During his visits to Strawberry last year, Hannah had tried to joke with him a few times, to jostle him out of his duty-bound seriousness, with no success. Maybe she'd have more luck this time.

Hannah was willing now to think about coming down to the valley, for the winter at least. Her Leah and Rachael were gone. She'd had her time to grieve for them, and perhaps it was time to move on. She could admit now that she was lonely. Those two women and that little boy were the only reason she settled in this town. They had been a family of outcasts, all four of them, and Heath now was the closest thing to family that she had left. With the exception of a few friendly acquaintances like the schoolmistress, there were no ties to bind her to this place.

When Heath had begged her to come with him last year, though, she hadn't been yet ready to leave the place where her two friends were buried. She'd needed some time to tend their graves and say goodbye. She also could see the desperation in him, and knew he was struggling with grieving and trying to find his way with that new family. Had she gone with him last year, Hannah had thought that she might have gotten in the way of him finding comfort with the Barkleys, but now she wasn't so sure. The last time she had seen Heath he had knelt by those graves in the woods for hours, and as he hugged her goodbye, she did not see in his eyes any sign that he had found peace or solace in his grief.

Another look down the trail, and then she resumed her tilling, doing what she most often did when worried or afraid or sad. She sang, her voice strong and loud, keeping time with her shovel.

 _Paul and Silas thought they was lost_

 _Dungeon shook and the chains come off_

 _Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on_

 _Freedom's name is mighty sweet_

 _And soon we're gonna meet_

 _Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on_

 _I got my hand on the gospel plow_

 _Won't take nothing for my journey now_

 _Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on_

As if she had sung him up out of the earth itself with the rhythm of her song, she heard galloping hoof beats, and she looked up to see Heath riding toward the house. He was speeding ahead of a wagon coming more slowly through the woods. He jumped off his horse and ran to her.

"Hannah, I could hear you singing all the way down the trail."

She watched him come with joy in her heart, but she could see it in his movement: _He's been hurt. He's too thin –_ He reached her before she could notice much more, and scooped her up into a hug, spinning her around, saying her name over and over. She laughed and hugged him back with all her strength. He then set her down gently and knelt in front of her, as had become their routine since he had grown to be almost a foot taller than she. He looked up at her as she stroked his hair.

"Oh, Heath, it's good to see you. So good. Let me look at you." She searched his face for a long moment. Her eyes became profoundly sad. "Oh, sweet child, what have you been through -?" She touched his cheek, gently, and then shook her head as he started to speak. "Mm-mm. No. Not now, baby. Later. You tell me later. OK?" He nodded, not taking his eyes from her face. "I see you brought _two_ brothers and a sister. I know Jarrod, so is that Nick and Audra?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"That's good, that's good –" Hannah started shooing Heath back toward the wagon so she could meet this new brother and sister. She particularly wanted to get eyes on Nick, as she had sensed from Heath's letters over the year that this brother had been displeased by Heath's arrival, and had done a great deal to make Heath's first few months with the Barkleys unpleasant and dangerous.

A few steps towards the wagon, however, Hannah suddenly stopped in surprise, staring at the big black mare. "How is it you have Nox?" Hannah suddenly asked. "How did she come to you?"

"Nox?" Heath said.

"Yes, the mare – oh, such a sad thing, what happened to that family. I wondered what became of her –"

Before Heath could get Hannah to explain what she meant, Audra had arrived, dismounted gracefully, and was running over. She, too, towered over the older woman.

"Hannah? I'm Audra, I'm _so_ happy to meet you finally!"

Hannah was astonished at the flood of warmth that came from this beautiful blond girl-child. "Audra. My, my, my, you're like a sunflower, so tall and beautiful like you was raised up on love and sunlight. And mercy, but don't you look so much like your brother Heath. I'm so glad you came. You're the one Heath always tells me about with the horses –" Hannah leaned in and winked, whispering, "and don't tell your mother or you brothers – but he says _you're_ the one who makes him smile no matter what."

She looked up at Jarrod, sitting in the driver's seat of the buckboard. "And I remember you, Mr. Jarrod, the righteous man. I remember you, though you lookin' a bit more rugged this time, not so lawyerly as you were. Maybe this visit I can get you to laugh a little bit."

"I'm sure of it, Hannah. Good to see you."

"And so **_this_** must be Nick." Hands on hips, she turned to study him as he climbed down from Coco.

Nick walked over, already feeling uncomfortable under Hannah's scrutiny. He cleared his throat. "Ma'am, nice to meet you." He removed his hat politely.

Hannah took a long moment to get a sense of this brother. Then she nodded, looking him in the eye. "You gave my boy a hard time when he first came, didn't you," she said, not angrily, but stating it as a fact.

"Yes, ma'am, I did," he answered, bravely holding her gaze.

"Y'know, Heath has never said a word agin' you, not agin' any of you, but I could tell. I could tell how much he wanted _you_ to let him in. All three of you, sure, but I could tell _you_ was the tough nut to crack. And I'm guessin' – I'm guessin' when you ain't cracked open, you can be not so nice. I'm guessin' you can be plenty mean." Nick was looking ashamed and sad now, and he started to speak, to apologize. "But," Hannah interrupted him, "once you do crack open, Lord have mercy, you as sweet as the land of milk and honey, and care for your own as ferocious as a mama lion." Heath laughed. Hannah looked at Audra for confirmation. "Am I right?"

"Absolutely," she beamed.

Nick was now blushing. He found himself inordinately pleased with her approval, and he was realizing just how nervous he had been about this meeting. "Thank you, ma'am." He glanced suspiciously at Heath. "Y'know, Heath, for an orphan, you've got more mothers than anyone I've ever met."

Hannah laughed out loud at that and raised her hands. "Yes, he do, and believe me, my Leah and my Rachael are right there watching out for him, don't you forget it." She directed this last to Heath with a meaningful glance.

Turning back to Nick, she said, "Heath has got himself some fine brothers and a strong sister around him now, praise the Lord. I already jes' love how you all seem to fit together. Audra is the heart, Jarrod is the thinker, and does that make you – the muscle? The strong arm and back?"

"Oh, there's a whole lot more to 'im than that, Hannah," Heath grinned at Nick. "Don't you let 'im fool you."

"Well, Nick, why don't you come with me - you and me'll get dinner on the table, and let these three take care of the horses and the wagon. Then once we're eating you can tell me how in the world that horse came to be with you?"


	30. Chapter 30 - A Tattered Shelter

_What other dungeon is so dark as one's own heart? What jailer so inexorable as one's self?_

 _Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864)_

 _"The House of the Seven Gables"_

* * *

 _Grief is a tattered tent_

 _Wherethrough God's light doth shine._

 _Lucy Lacom (1824-1893)_

 _"Song-Wefts"_

* * *

"Nick, bring in another armload of firewood while you're out there getting the potatoes. Then you're gonna go hunt me up some eggs out in the hen house. And no dilly-dallying. We got some cookin' to do."

Overhearing, Jarrod smiled back at the tiny cabin as he listened to Hannah affectionately boss Nick through the dinner-making process. He was intrigued by her decision to rope Nick in as her assistant, and for some reason it made him very happy. He decided not to think too hard about it for right now, and turned his attention back to getting the horses fed and settled in on a tether line for the night. Heath's voice now came from somewhere out of sight among the animals, as he checked each of the horses' feet.

"Audra, we're gonna have to get some shoes for this giant black beast, y'know. Really should get it done before we ride back down to the valley."

"Heath, does Hannah know something about Sombra? What her story is? I can't wait to hear it."

Heath straightened up and gave Sombra an affectionate pat on the neck. "It sounds like it's not a happy story, so if I know Hannah, telling it's going to have to wait until after dinner. Hannah is of the opinion that such things as bad news and arguing don't mix well with food. She always said the meal should be about the food and gratitude in the moment." Jarrod chuckled as he heard Heath do a passable imitation of Hannah's voice. "She thought you should pay attention while you're eating. That, of course, was when we had food to pay attention to – but she was damn good at improvising to get something on the table for us."

Inside the cabin, Nick stacked the firewood neatly, and put the potatoes he had washed in a big bowl. Looking around the one central space that served as a kitchen and living area, he could see clearly that his bedroom on the ranch encompassed more square footage than did this entire home. This place, this tiny woman, this whole situation was very disorienting. He was a little surprised, though, to find that this internal vertigo did not upset or anger him, and he wondered about that. The immersion in Heath's upbringing, however, was causing Nick to ruminate over those first days when Heath arrived at the ranch.

He pictured Heath riding up through the front gate of the house that first time. Nick tried to imagine what the sight of the mansion would be like to someone coming from a home like this.

Right on the heels of that thought, involuntarily and with some discomfort, came the memory of his brother's second time at the house, later that same evening, when he, Nick, dragged a bloodied Heath in through that massive front door, across the massive foyer with its sweeping staircase and chandelier, and shoved him into another room with a fireplace almost as big as this whole kitchen.

Not for lack of trying, this evening, but Nick still found himself incapable of imagining what that traverse had been like for his brother, not to mention the fraternal confrontation and rejection that followed. He had dragged Heath like a collared criminal into a room that was dominated by a portrait of Tom Barkley - the celebrated progenitor surveying the scene from a framed oil that was certainly bigger than the table on which they were about to share dinner - and then Nick had proceeded to bully, insult, mock and threaten the boy. He was amazed that Heath didn't try to kill him right then and there.

Not for the first time, Nick considered that Heath seemed to have come to the ranch with no intention of announcing himself as Tom Barkley's bastard son, until that information was beaten out of him by Nick. Ironically, as dramatic and life-changing as that admission was, it was not remotely what Nick thought Heath was concealing. Nick had been sunk in a state of anxious paranoia about the railroad, the first major test of his leadership of this post-Tom-Barkley era, and he had been nearly blind to any concerns outside of that preoccupation. Had it not been for his fears that Heath was a spy for the railroad, he probably would've left Heath alone. Heath might've worked his time as a skilled cowhand, and then moved on with no Barkley the wiser.

Nick laughed at himself, as he realized how frightening that possible outcome seemed to him now.

For Nick, now up to his eyeballs in the realization that his brother Heath had a whole life and a family before he ever came to the Barkleys, this memory was a glaring example of his own prodigiously self-centered tunnel vision. It was a characteristic that helped Nick make decisions, move forward, lead men and get things done, but when he was off the mark, he knew, boy howdy, he could be like a locomotive just jumped the tracks.

The sad thing was, as much of a God-awful bully he had been that first night, it didn't compare to how he had behaved toward his brother over the months that followed. He could see Jarrod and Audra felt guilty for ignoring things about Heath that no one but Silas knew or noticed: important things, like this home, and family, and the loss of Leah and Rachael. Nick was feeling that guilt too, certainly, but it was just one more layer on top of so much else for which he felt accountable.

Submerged as Nick had been in his own worries, Heath really didn't take shape for him as a person, really, for months after he first came. Thinking back, Nick conceded that most of that time, he saw Heath only through one lens or another of his own anxieties. He was some upstart disrespectful kid on a bridge; he was a spy for the railroad; he was a conman out to blackmail the family. And then, worst of all, Heath became a walking, talking insult to his father's image and memory, and by extension, to Nick's own credibility.

It was dizzying to him how quickly his mother took to Heath. Audra did as well, but that he could comfortably dismiss as being due to her youth and girlhood. Not so easy to dismiss was the connection his mother clearly felt to this soft-spoken embodiment of the young man she had fallen in love with and married. Doubts nagged at Nick. The kid had just as much of his father in him as any of them, and anyone who knew Tom Barkley in his youth could see it right away. Perhaps it was Heath who should have been the rightful heir, the one who could step into his father's boots and carry his legacy forward? Wouldn't that be ironic?

Not for the first time, Nick considered that Heath seemed to have little interest in stepping into his father's boots, literally or figuratively, but rather than providing reassurance, this had offended Nick even more. Heath's very existence was upsetting to him. He made Nick angry at the smallest provocation, and Nick just didn't want to look any more closely than he absolutely had to. He knew virtually nothing about Heath's life, and he deliberately kept it that way.

What Heath did seem to have was a knack for stepping right into the path of trouble. The most glaring example, when Nick reluctantly let himself think about it: that huge, risky, almost-disastrous San Diego cattle drive last year, when Heath had been on the ranch not even two weeks. Nick remembered that time with a cavernous fear of what might have happened, and a nauseating, twisting feeling of regret. God, he'd been so stressed then, already, for weeks, what with the railroad conflict, and then the responsibility of taking his and his neighbors' herds – old friends of his father, these ranchers, taking their skeptical measure of the number two son – on a long and untested route.

And then Heath arrived. Showed up on their doorstep, right smack in the middle of all of it.

What Nick had come to understand, though, was that the greatest threat Heath faced that spring was not the railroad and their gunmen, nor even was it the hostile hands working the drive, or the treacherous General who tried to sabotage it with murder and mutiny. No. The danger for Heath was _him_ , Nick, the number two son, caught up in his pride and his need to succeed and be respected as his father had been. Nick was a locomotive about to come off the tracks, terrified of failure, and there was Heath, right in his path.

It had been voted that Heath was to join the family and work the ranch. Unfortunately for Heath, it fell to Nick to carry out that decision. It was a pretense. Nick fed him daily to the wolf pack of the hired hands.

 _I threw Heath out there on his own, and I made sure those jealous, bigoted cowhands knew he was on his own._

Nick had bossed him around, sent him to the bottom of the totem pole whenever possible, publicly undercut his abilities and decisions, and gave silent approval to the disrespect and hostility that simmered among the men. This had a double benefit: throwing the hands an outcast to bully made them easier for Nick to manage as a pack; and the truth was he wanted them to attack Heath and disrespect him, because the family had forbidden Nick to do so himself.

Jarrod saw it. He understood immediately, and he spoke up straightaway, the night before the drive was to begin. For a second, Nick had felt the truth of it in his gut. He remembered the moment, when he saw the darkness of the path he was following. He turned the vision aside. He had convinced himself that he was bravely following the most responsible course of action. He let stand the status quo of the wolf pack, ostensibly in service of that responsibility, and as far as Heath's fate was concerned, well, that was out of his hands. He would let nature take its course.

The General, like Jarrod, also saw immediately that Heath was alone, with no allies and many enemies. Being a wolf himself, the General exploited that vulnerability for his own purposes.

 _Heath tried to warn me, and I, no surprise, didn't listen. The General was a great man, a great leader, and was this upstart mining-camp punk going to try to belittle yet another of my idols?_

 _Heath was on the outside. The General knew, if he got rid of me, he could move in as the lead dog. And the minute I was gone and had left the drive in Heath's hands, the General turned that wolf pack on my brother and tried to murder him._

 _Did I know such a thing might happen, as nature took its course? I wish with all my heart I could say no. Perhaps I was surprised by the details, so blinded by my admiration for the idolized General that I didn't see his ulterior motives until it was all long over._

 _But the men? I have no excuse there. **I know men**. I know what they can do in a pack when they see they have permission to hunt at will. _

Nick ran his hands through his hair and tried to roll some of the tension out of his shoulders. As always, there was that useless wish that he could go back and handle it all differently. He shoved it aside impatiently.

 _Heath stood them all off, all alone, from a shack full of smuggled munitions bound for a Mexican warlord. He put his life on the line to carry out his responsibilities: to me; to this family and those unknown rancher friends of his unknown father; to those murderous, disloyal cowhands, to keep them from following the General to their deaths in Mexico; even to those unknown Mexicans whom Diaz would slaughter with these weapons in his campaign to take power._

When Heath made it home alive, there was a warm welcome and happiness – and huge relief - at his success. Nick suspected his family knew more than they let on about how hard it was for Heath to work on the ranch under Nick's directorate. As Nick pieced together the bigger story, after the fact, he was humbled and shamed by the unspeakable bravery his brother had shown.

Then arose another pretense.

 _We decided that the General was the villain. Heath seemed almost desperate for me and the family to believe that story. He wanted so badly to absolve me, as if that would make my hostility go away._

 _But I know it was me. I was the villain. I marked Heath with blood and let the wolves hunt, and they proceeded to behave, (again no surprise), like wolves. In the Kern River part of the story, all the General did was outflank me and take the hunt in a direction of his choosing._

Heath had been reluctant to elaborate on the details of the deadly confrontation by the Kern. In retrospect, Nick was ashamed to say, it seemed Heath was trying to spare Nick's feelings. The hands trickled back in from San Diego in groups of three or four. As they arrived to the ranch and checked in with the boss, Nick started asking questions. It didn't take him long to reconstruct the scene, and what he saw made him want to avert his eyes.

 _If Heath hadn't held his ground on that drive, we would have lost that herd, and most of those fool cowhands would've lost their lives in Mexico._

 _But –_

 _If I had just listened even once to Jarrod, or Heath, I could have prevented the whole thing._

Nick could, with difficulty, admit this to himself now, but last year, his shame and guilt made him, if anything, even more hostile. He was unwilling to look on Heath as a person, or a brother, or even just a very young man with a very old look in his eyes.

Sometime a few weeks later, the family struggled through another uncomfortable phase, as the town of Stockton prepared a ceremony to unveil a statue honoring Tom Barkley. Nick still could barely keep his irritation toward Heath under wraps. The opportunity to celebrate his father's memory made his awareness of the town gossip and the stain of Heath's existence that much more acute. Now added to this was the distress Nick could see Heath was causing his mother, as she tried to understand the sordid history that had produced him – so much distress that she went driving off to Strawberry and actually missed the statue ceremony.

Nick remembered clearly being upset about that. He'd heard, in the course of events, that the Simmons had murdered a woman in pursuit of blackmailing his mother. He was upset about that too. He had not a single thought as to who that woman was to Heath.

Like the rest of the family, Nick felt some small relief in the information Mother had found on her excursion. Over time, the reflected injury Nick felt from his father's infidelity eased as well. He could begin to tolerate Heath and then quickly, surprisingly, discovered he had come to love his younger brother deeply. This excursion into the mountains, however, was drawing Nick's thoughts back over that time, with a deeper understanding and a new, painful appreciation of how much he had refused to see. He found himself very glad that he had come along after all - though he wouldn't have minded skipping Jasper's involvement in all that.

Hannah, however, was bossing him around at the moment, calling his attention back to the present, and Nick felt purely grateful to be given clear directions on what to do to help. He accepted a basket she handed him, and received her instructions on where in the yard he was likely to find hens sitting on eggs.

"I need at least six," she said, "and then, we're gonna make some corn cakes. Not even Heath knows how I make my corn cakes." She shooed him outside.

The hen house was small, maybe twelve feet by eight, and six feet high at the peak of its roof. It was solidly made, but out of an odd mixture of cut lumber and scrap wood such as discarded signage and barrel staves, often ingeniously pieced together. The lintel of the door was made of the cross piece of a double ox yoke. The roof was showing some wear and needed a few shingles, but otherwise it was quite sturdy. Nick commented on it when he returned to the kitchen with eight eggs.

Hannah chuckled. "Oh, yes, Heath built that henhouse, was over ten years ago now. Before the war." She nodded. "It's held up right well, just needs a few shingles, just like this house do. Heath was so proud of it. He earned the money for the wood and nails working at the livery –" Hannah looked thoughtful as she tried to remember. "He musta been 12 years old, cause he got it done right before he started riding the mail route."

"Heath rode for the Pony Express? At _12_?" Nick was incredulous.

"Yes, the last year it was running! Oh, he did enjoy that job. He'd go back and forth on the stretch between Placerville and Carson City. Told us of a few bad moments crossin' those mountains in winter, but he loved the horses, he loved the teamwork – he loved workin' where all that mattered was whether you could do the job. They didn't care who his father was or wasn't. It was a good time for him. Got him out of this town. This town could be so mean. And he made good money. He'd live on the bed and board the Express provided and sent mos' every penny home."

Hannah counted the eggs Nick had brought in. "This is good. We'll have a few extra to boil up and serve with the chicken. Now, grab that bucket there – I'm going to need fresh water for boiling. I usually use that hand pump that's right by the door, but it stopped working a few weeks ago, so you're going to have to pull right from the well."

Out back by the low-walled well, Nick hauled a bucket up via a rusted pulley. He admired the clever pump system that had been constructed to bring water into the house, made as it was out of salvaged parts from what might have been a sump from the mines. There were two holding tanks – a small one on the roof was painted black, which Hannah told him kept the water warm for washing.

"This was another project of Heath's. He was 16, and just come back from the war. He needed something to keep his hands and his mind busy, somethin' to help keep the war thoughts away. He didn't want to tell his Mama or Rachael about it, where he'd been or what he'd seen, but I could see some of what was in his eyes, and we all could see it plenty on his back, Lord have mercy. I know something about what the whip can do." She sighed, shaking her head, as she placed chicken and vegetables into a pot to boil. "He learned a lot about pipes and pumps and water in that prison camp. But he wouldn't say much more than that, other than to tell me every day how much he appreciated my cooking.

"He'd tell us instead stories about the family he helped out right after he left there. I can't remember their name - but they had 11 or 12 children I think, and oh, he had some funny stories. We'd laugh and laugh. And he told us about Rivka, how he was sure he'd met the girl he wanted to marry when they were both old enough. It was so sweet. He would look like a boy in love when he'd talk about her. And that was good for his mama and Rachael to see, because most times his eyes, they'd look so old. It was so good to have him back. And I'm looking forward to finally meeting that girl, yes I am.

"Now, Nick, pour this rice in that chicken pot, and then bring that bag of cornmeal over. We're gonna make some corncakes."

* * *

Horses fed and groomed, and the wagon unloaded, Heath and Audra and Jarrod walked tired back to the cabin. Heath eyed the shingles critically, and then climbed up the outside of the porch to the roof to examine a soft spot near the chimney. "I'm going to have to make some kind of flashing for this spot here," he said, then called down, "Audra, you should climb up here, I have a great view of a chickaree in her burrow."

She clambered up and looked where he pointed. "Oh, Heath, she's adorable!" she cried, enchanted. Then she frowned slightly, her eye caught by something beyond, further into the woods.

She hopped down. Jarrod watched Heath descended a little more slowly, saw him wince slightly as he rubbed his right side. He limped as they walked together to the back of the house.

"Little bit sore, Heath?"

"Yeah. It pulls some, where that bullet was. It'll be alright."

"Well, let us help with the heavy lifting and the roof repairs, OK?"

"You got a deal." They had reached the well, and Heath fiddled with the mechanism that drew the water up to ground level. It clearly wasn't functioning. Heath frowned. "Hannah!"

"Uh oh, I'm in trouble now," Hannah said in the kitchen, winking at Nick.

"Hannah, you were supposed to let me know if this gave you trouble! How long has it not been working?"

She stuck her head out the back door. "Now don't you be cross, Heath. Jes' a week or so. And it's time for dinner, so get washed up now."

He sighed, but he was smiling. "Yes, ma'am." He glanced at Jarrod. "She's stubborn. Probably just needs to be primed again, but I'll fool with it tomorrow. Where's Audra?"

"I don't know," Jarrod said, suddenly worried. "Audra!" He called a few times, but heard nothing in response.

"Don't worry, Jarrod, nothing too hazardous right nearby," Heath said reassuringly, but they set out looking for tracks nonetheless, calling as they went.

Nick looked outside. "Now where did that girl run off to?"

Jarrod and Heath caught up with Audra not too far off in the woods. Jarrod breathed a sigh of relief, but then he looked a little further into the trees and saw what it was that so held her attention. Heath came up even with her and also followed her gaze, then turned to her, his eyes sad.

"What are you doing here, Sis?"

Audra looked up at him, and said, gently, "I got fouled up in the woods back there and came across this grave. It's not a likely place for a grave."

Heath nodded, remembering. His eyes turned back to the side-by-side headstones that could be seen in the pine-shaded clearing. Jarrod thought he had something of the look of a condemned man finally resigned to his fate and struggling to approach it honorably; it was with a visible effort that he paused to straighten up and settle himself before he walked past Audra to stand at the foot of the graves.

Facing the two markers, Heath was still for a moment, then slowly sank to his knees in the soft earth, running both hands over his face and then dropping them into his lap. The terrible weight of everything he had experienced over the past months seemed to press down upon him. He thought of all the times he had turned to his memory of these two women - their love, their teaching, their laughing and their scolding - to find his way through the dark, to find his way back to his heart. Here in this place he could feel their absence like a deep pain in his chest. He was filled with the yearning to feel his arms around them both just once more, to hold them close against his heart and thereby assuage the raw, hollow ache inside.

Walking to the graveside with Audra, Jarrod looked at the inscriptions. _They were so young, both of them_ , Jarrod realized with a slight shock. These headstones were not the original ones, certainly – Heath must have brought these up last summer. Jarrod was bothered by the fact that he had no memory of Heath arranging for these headstones or bringing them up to Strawberry. _I must have been in San Francisco,_ he thought, adding angrily, a _nd that's no excuse. There's no excuse for a brother going off alone to set headstones for his parents, and no one in the family knowing anything about it or thinking to ask_. The oddity of that statement went unnoticed by him. _It's just wrong._

 _Leah Thomson_

 _March 19, 1830 - March 3, 1872_

 _~ Beloved ~_

 _Strength and honor are her clothing;_

 _She shall rejoice in time to come._

 _She opens her mouth with wisdom,_

 _And on her tongue is the law of kindness._

 _Her children rise up and call her blessed._

 _Rachael Sophia Caulfield_

 _January 10, 1829 - May 4, 1872_

 _~ Beloved ~_

 _Entreat me not to leave thee,_

 _Or to return from following after thee:_

 _For whither thou goest, I will go;_

 _And where thou lodgest, I will lodge:_

 _Thy people shall be my people,_

 _And thy God my God:_

 _Where thou diest, will I die,_

 _And there will I be buried._

Audra looked from the headstones, to Jarrod, and then Heath, her blue eyes wide and sad and filling with tears.

"Heath, I wish I had known. I wish I had thought to ask."

"Audra, you are not the one to apologize," Jarrod said quietly, but urgently. "I knew. I knew more than anyone in the family about what had happened, but I really didn't see. I never tried to talk to Heath about it. I didn't want to see, or think about his family and what he had lost, because I was too preoccupied with our dead father's wounded reputation." His voice was rough with remorse. "And for that, I am truly, truly sorry."

"Don't be angry with yourself, Jarrod. I might not have talked about it with you even if you had asked," Heath said, his voice distant. He was staring at the two graves, his whole body tense as if he expected to be crushed. "Even if you had - I'm - I'm not the one –"

Heath was desperately trying to keep in his mind what John had been saying to him just that morning. _It brings peace to no one. Do not waste your energy in condemning yourself._ But it just hurt so much, kneeling here by their graves. He was trying to remember what John had said, but the rage and sadness drained him of strength and left him blind. Too heavy, too dark, it descended upon him and, obscuring all light, claimed to be truth.

 _Someday I promise I'll be big and then Matt won't be able to hurt any of us anymore_

"I'm not the one - to be comforted. It was - it was my fault." Heath raised his eyes briefly, and Jarrod saw a look he recognized – that of a man finally confessing a terrible crime, with no hope of pardon, only the relief of no longer being alone with his knowledge of guilt.

"I knew how my mother was punished; not just for my being born, or for having been with a man, and becoming pregnant, but for raising me as her own. For loving me. She was condemned for that, more than she ever was for the act that produced me. I was the sin made flesh; I was to be shunned; she committed the terrible crime of loving me anyway. We were poor. She would never be free of that, raising me, because of what my existence made her in others' eyes. I could never make up for that, for her, but I tried to do my best for her, to ease her life any way I could.

"She had a cancer - I couldn't prevent that, I guess, but maybe if I'd been here to help care for her it might have been easier -– or if I could have gotten her a doctor. I don't know. She got sick so fast, I just wish I had had more time with her at the end.

"But then Rachael…After we buried Mama, Rachael told me to go. Go find the Barkleys, she said. I didn't want to. She told me, just go look, you don't have to tell them who you are. Just go look and then think on it. Or come back here and think on it. She said, we're always here for you, but don't just close your eyes. Leah wanted you to know, and decide for yourself. Just go look.

"So I went. I rode down to Stockton, and Matt and Martha watched me go."

Heath seemed lost in the tale he was telling now, Jarrod thought, kneeling there and speaking more to the headstones than to the living.

"Matt - well –" Heath continued, "Matt figured the Barkleys would squash me like a bug, and he enjoyed telling me and the rest of the town how he'd be waiting for that happy news from the valley. He figured I'd be shot right off, or at least run out of town like a stray dog."

Jarrod considered the fact that that was very nearly what had happened, if it had ended with the brothers' first meeting that night. He had been run off like a stray dog. If Audra hadn't gone after Heath when he left the ranch, it might have ended there.

"I knew what Matt was," Heath went on. "He was weak, and he was mean. And the weaker he felt, the meaner he got. Martha, though - she was hungry and mean. I saw what was in Martha's heart when I rode out. She was a scavenger. Matt always did bend to what Martha wanted - but I didn't think they would - I never thought –" Heath stopped, his jaw clenched, scowling at the ground. He drew a slow breath, went on.

"At worst I thought maybe they'd just try to trouble me somehow. They were cruel to my Mama, on account of me, just like everyone else. They were both a little bit scared of Rachael, I think. It was always me those two would go after. Martha used to find ways to hurt me when I was just little. But when I got a little older and faster - 6, 7, 8 years old – then it was always Matt. How many times he almost killed me when I'd slip up and he'd catch me, I don't know. But I promised Rachael and my Mama and Hannah. All my life they cared for me, they loved me, and I told them, I promised, when I was big he wouldn't hurt my family anymore."

Audra gasped quietly, put her hand to her mouth. Heath didn't seem to notice.

"I thought with me gone they'd be safe," he went on. "I left. I went to see the Barkleys. I'll go look, I thought, and then I'll come back and think it through. I'll come back and make sure Rachael and Hannah are OK, and say goodbye to my Mama. I never planned to tell anyone in Stockton why I was there, but then - well - then there was Nick, and one thing led to another.

"So while I was down in the valley eating breakfast off of china plates and sleeping in a bedroom bigger than this whole cabin – they – they -" One hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist in the dirt over the graves. He forced himself to say the words. "They pushed her into a mine shaft and murdered her. Rachael was gone. I could've - I can't forgive myself. I keep trying to get around it somehow, but I can't. How can Hannah ever forgive me? It's my fault that she's alone."

"Oh, now, don't you start bringing my name into this foolishness, boy. Mm-mm. No. No, no, _no_."

Everyone looked up in surprise. Hannah left where she had been watching with Nick, and marched over to stand in front of Heath. She planted her feet on the graves and stood with her hands on her hips, as though she had grown up there like a tree. Heath stayed where he was, looking as if he might sink into the grave himself.

"Hannah, I'm so sorry –" he said, hopelessly.

"You know who you sound just like right now? _Do_ you?" she demanded. She waited, glowering at him, obviously expecting an answer. Heath looked up at her and shook his head.

"You sound like Rachael. Yes, _Rachael_. I want you to think back to one time – you were all of seven years old. One of the many times that drunken demon-man damn near killed you. You remember? Broken bones, a black eye, and you run off to hide under the dock, almos' froze and drowned you were 'till your Mama pulled you out of the water. You with me? You remember?"

Heath nodded, swallowed. Jarrod noticed he was shaking.

"Can you hear Rachael? Saying it was her fault what he did to you. Cryin' to Leah, begging her to forgive her. Sayin' it was her fault, 'cause she told you to wait, but she was busy, and you run off on your own, hopin' to get a bit of food from that nice cook at the hotel."

"He gave me a piece of bread and butter, and a penny for bringing over the delivery from the store," Heath said to the dirt in his hand. He could hear Rachael sobbing. _Leah, forgive me, it's my fault –_

"Now, what would you say to her if she was standing here, Heath?" Hannah was speaking more softly now. "Would you hate her? Would you tell Rachael she failed you? Would you tell her it was her fault?" He was shaking his head. She walked toward him. "If she was standin' right here in front of you, Heath, would you tell her it was her fault that Matt broke your shoulder and beat you bloody for getting mud on his porch?"

"No. No. I love her. I love her -" He was looking at Hannah, his eyes wet.

"And she loves you. And that's all there is to it, child. It's simple." She put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his face. "It's simple. She love you so much, child, and believe me she knows how much you love her. That's why it hurts."

"Miss her – I miss them both –"

"I know, baby. I know." Hannah began to shed tears as well, with sadness, but also with relief, as she felt he was coming back across the river to her. "I know. I miss 'em too."


	31. Ch 31 The Soul Is A Watered Garden

_Therefore they shall come and sing in the height of Zion, and shall flow together to the goodness of the Lord, for wheat, and for wine, and for oil, and for the young of the flock and of the herd: and their soul shall be as a watered garden; and they shall not sorrow any more at all._

 _Jeremiah 31:12_

"Oh, my Lord, Hannah. Now I understand." Jarrod's voice was muffled, his mouth being full of the most remarkable corn cake he had ever tasted. He chewed and swallowed, his eyes closed, savoring it. He then gazed in wonder at the unlovely baked lump on his plate that contained such an ambrosial flavor. "I understand now why Frank considered riding a whole day out of his way just for this. The texture is incredible."

Heath grinned, glad to see his family happy, and filled with pleasure to see the alchemy of these two parts of his life coming together. He felt whole, intact, in a way he hadn't for a very long time. Such thoughts, of course, led his mind to Rivka, and he realized the prospect of her arrival wasn't terrifying him as it had been. He had been so worried that she would come and find him drowning, or out of his mind as he had been lately. He felt better – at least not quite so unmoored and windblown – and that was a start. He thought maybe he'd send her a letter from up here after all. It might not reach her in time, but over the years it always helped him to write out his thoughts to her.

Hannah had returned to her place at the head of the table, smiling widely at Jarrod's continued effusion over the corn cakes. She held up her hand to interrupt and said, "I thank you very much for your compliments, Jarrod, but it wouldn't be Christian of me to accept. Nick here made those corn cakes."

"What?!" Heath jumped to his feet from where he was sitting with Audra near the small bookshelf and fireplace. "Hannah. You didn't."

Hannah laughed out loud at his outrage and winked at Nick. "What can I say, Heath? I sensed a talent in the boy."

"Talent? _Nick_? How – you never –" Heath paced in a small circle, at a loss for words. Jarrod raised his eyebrows in sanguine surprise and continued to enjoy his corn cake as he watched the scene unfold. Audra started to giggle.

Heath returned to the table, looking at Hannah's face suspiciously. He was wondering if she was just teasing him. "Did you _really_ , Hannah? Or are you just playing a joke -?" This last was spoken like a wish, though he could see now it was no joke. "I can't believe it. _Nick_? You showed Nick how to make those corn cakes." He spun on his brother, who was grinning from ear to ear. "I've been begging her to tell me how she does it for goin' on – goin' on fifteen _years_! And then you, you big ol' cowpoke, you just stroll in here and – and -" He threw his hands in the air, the gesture of a man who has admitted his inability to understand the mysteries of the universe, or at least the mysteries of Hannah's mind. With a sigh, he stood with his hands on his hips, and shook his head. He glanced at Hannah with a grin, and then he looked at Nick.

"Guess I gotta trust her eye for talent. They're damn good."

Jarrod agreed, wordlessly nodding enthusiastically, and waving Audra over to try some.

"Hannah, you always have something up your sleeve and goin' around in that head of yours. I ain't never been able to get ahead of you."

"And a good thing, too, child."

"Oh, Heath, this is so adorable!" Audra had found some papers and written lessons, and a child's drawing, tucked inside one of the schoolbooks on the shelf. She had been drawn immediately to the books. She recognized the blue-green leather-bound set as being the one from which Heath had kept a volume, the book over which he had cried the day he learned of Rachael's death. Rachael had been Heath's only schoolteacher, the regular school being forbidden to him. He and Rachael must have spent many hours with these books, at this kitchen table.

He crossed over to see what she was looking at, and both Nick and Jarrod laughed to see him blush. He didn't object to Audra showing it to his brothers – he knew it would be futile, and so he looked on with an expression of embarrassed resignation.

"Why, Heath, it's a family portrait," Jarrod said, smiling. "Someone wrote _Age 6_ on the bottom. There's you in the middle, and Leah and Rachael and Hannah all around you. I see the mountains and trees and Hannah are all very big – the cabin is tiny – and this horse you drew in here is _very_ detailed. I see he's a bay. Maybe you were seeing Charger in your future?"

"I had an imaginary horse," Heath mumbled. "I'd go take care of him when I was done with my chores."

"And here's Leah, she's floating over you like an angel, and this must be Rachael with the long dark hair. She looks like she's got her feet on the ground."

Heath smiled at hearing the picture described that way. He remembered drawing it – he was excited because Rachael had come across some colored pencils, and the first thing he wanted to draw was his family and the horse he could see in his head.

Hannah looked over Audra's shoulder. "Yes, he's exactly right. Rachael had her feet on the ground. She was so smart, so serious, tough on Heath and even tougher on herself. And Leah did float, she did – she was so pretty, so easy-going, strong as steel inside, but gentle and sweet, and a smile that lit up the whole house."

"And you're as big as the mountains, Hannah," Heath said. "You mothered all of us."

"That's the truth, I mothered all three of you. And believe me, those two girls needed plenty of mothering themselves. You all kept me on my toes – though you especially, child. Now, Heath, why don't you and Nick go check on your horses. He needs some fresh air, been sweating in this kitchen all evening, right Nick?"

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

 _Forgive these wild and wandering cries,_

 _Confusions of a wasted youth;_

 _Forgive them where they fail in truth,_

 _And in thy wisdom make me wise._

 _Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)_

 _"In Memoriam"_

* * *

Heath lifted a lantern to light their way as they walked toward the horses tethered at the edge of the forest. He heard Nike whicker a hello as they approached.

"She's a talkative one, isn't she?" Nick commented.

"You ain't foolin'. When Charger's around, she just goes on and on about everything, the weather, the flies, how fast she is, what's that smell – but get her cutting or racing, though, and suddenly she's all business."

"Maybe when we get back, you and me can put up that paddock fence by the new barn. You're gonna need the training space. I saw we got in the lumber for it right after you three headed up the trail."

"I'd like that."

"Heath, how are you – that is, I wanted to say –" Nick cleared his throat, completely unsure of what he wanted to say. He was a man who dealt with what he found right in front of him, whether people or situations. Yet now, with his brother right in front of him, he felt the two of them surrounded by an ocean of unacknowledged history, much of it brand new to him. He'd been witness to some of the telling of it now. He felt acutely aware of all that moving around them, he thought he should speak to it somehow, and he had no idea where to start. He was glad he came, though, he could say that. He started to speak, but Heath interrupted him.

"Nick, you know I love you, right?" He flashed a quick smile at Nick, as he echoed his brother's words to him before he left on this trek.

Caught up short, Nick was surprised, then let out his breath in a soft laugh. He smiled a bit sheepishly. "Yeah, Heath. Yeah, I do." Hard to believe that conversation was just yesterday morning. "I'm not glad for that run-in you had with Jasper, but I am glad it brought me up here. I'm glad I came. There's so much I didn't see or want or care to know about you –"

"Nick, I wasn't telling you about it either."

"Maybe so, but we were all just _fine_ with that, with you being a closed book, and that's just not right. And I'm sorry about it. And I'll tell you, this is an eye-opener, seeing where you grew up. That pump you patched together for the well is a nice bit of work, by the way, especially for a 16 year old. And Hannah – wow. She's a force of nature. I wish I could have met Rachael – and Leah, strange as that may sound, impossible as that is."

Heath smiled at him. "I'm glad you came, too. And look at you now. The keeper of the corn cake recipe. Boy howdy, who woulda predicted that?"

* * *

To Heath's way of thinking, Nick's initial reaction to his existence was pretty understandable. Heath was no stranger to that stray-dog, get-off-my-turf kind of sentiment, though he had to admit that this unique situation - being the bastard suddenly elevated to family status - had placed a much bigger target on his back than even he was used to. The hostility was intense - from Nick, for causing him shame; from neighbors and folks around town, for whom Tom Barkley was their local hero; and especially from the ranch hands, for him being set above them and disrupting their pecking order.

Early on, Nick seemed to prefer assigning Heath to work that would keep them away from each other. That also made sense - Heath was aware of how much his simple presence angered Nick. Nick had a hard enough time just having the interloper there at the dinner table every day. So most days during those first few weeks, Heath would be sent off on his own with a crew.

They were all working from sunup to sundown getting the herds ready for the big drive to San Diego. Tired, cranky, and bored, the men unfortunately still found energy to gang up on Heath periodically - groups of three, four, five guys - if the opportunity arose, out of sight of the family or the foreman. They'd culled him out and pounded on him pretty good a few times, for no reason other than pack animal instinct or simple entertainment. One time in the barn, they'd shoved Heath into a stall to avoid being caught by Jarrod, who arrived home unexpectedly and in a hurry. The bruises were blamed on the horse. They made a show of rescuing Heath, dazed, from the completely docile animal. Jarrod frowned, sensing the strangeness, but taking the long-time employee's word, he left Heath in their care.

Coming after Heath had also quickly become a rite of passage for the new hires, as it drew approval from both the work crew and the boss. Nick had been fine with that too - in fact Heath could sense Nick "touching up" the bullseye on his back each morning as he was reviewing the day's assignments, making sure everyone could see it nice and clear.

But still - Heath didn't hold it against Nick. It was a funny thing, but even when Nick was being mean as a rattlesnake, or just shooting off his mouth, he just always made sense to Heath. He was understandable. What Heath found amusing, though, is that when they _did_ work together, Nick was so busy being annoyed, he didn't seem to notice how _well_ they worked together. Heath figured he'd come around eventually. And like Hannah said, he was milk and honey once he did get him cracked open.

So why did he stay? Heath did occasionally ask himself this. He loved the work – it was a fantastically well-run ranch - and Heath figured his getting jumped a few times a week would eventually stop. He had come to love this family – he had a dear friend already in Silas – and he did truly believe that Nick would come around. He wrote a few letters to Rachael, and she always told him he could come home if he wanted to. He wrote back that there was a risky, big, very critical cattle drive coming up, and even though Nick really didn't see Heath as a partner yet, Heath knew Nick needed him, and so he would stay and see it through. Once they got back from the drive, he wrote, he'd come up for a visit.

Heath never did get to see Rachael again. When he thought about that now, he tried to ease the pain by remembering the long, warm hug they had shared before he left Strawberry back in March, and remembering that he always told her how much he loved her.

The drive to San Diego could have been a disaster all around. The situation with the hands had continued unchanged. Then the General arrived and joined the drive, and in a moment raised the hostility of the crew to a whole new level. Instead of Nick's passive endorsement of Heath's outcast position, here now was a wolf leading the dog pack, and all growling after him. That bunch would've killed him, Heath had no doubt about that. He was glad to have spared the Barkleys that. It's bad enough having to publicly recognize a bastard son. It would have been even worse to have it known the family had allowed the bastard to be murdered by their hired hands.

The drive and the stand-off could've ended very badly for everyone, if the General hadn't gone to pieces and shown the men how crazy he was. The men would've gone on to Mexico and been killed fighting for a thug warlord, and the herd would have died, abandoned on the trail.

Yes, Heath would agree, that situation had been pretty bad. He was glad to have spared the family so many disasters, and hugely relieved he had gotten back alive himself. He had had a lot of nightmares, for a good while after that drive was over. Nick still didn't like him very much, but the men stopped hunting him, for the most part. There was a quiet interlude. Then came the news of Rachael's murder.

* * *

 _At first grief was too great. They were winter- stricken. The very rigor of their sorrow would let nothing flow. But as warmth makes even glaciers trickle, and opens streams in the ribs of frozen mountains, so the heart knows the full flow and life of its grief only when it begins to melt and pass away._

 _H. W. Beecher (1813-1887)_

The light of the lantern did not penetrate so far into the woods to illuminate the two headstones, but Heath gazed into the dark, seeing instead the massive sea change that had been moving through him since Audra led them to the gravesite a few hours ago. It seemed right that it was Audra who had brought him there, Audra who had brought him frozen back across the river, who reminded him that there was yet warmth in the world, and that he could still feel it if he tried.

Here he had fallen down and confessed his failure, and it was Hannah who had put her arms around him, telling him to lay aside his self-condemnation. Hannah had spoken to him from the knowledge of their shared life, and her words summoned Leah and Rachael up from his own heart to bear witness and call him back to himself.

His brothers and sisters too, were like suns around him, and he had seemed to feel the heat of them on his skin, warming him through, thawing the frozen, piled-up ice dams that filled his chest. It all moved within him, painful and welcome as proof of life.

He bowed his head, drawn down by the weight of his grief, but seeing now a path home after a long, desolate, ice-bound exile. He glimpsed hope: he began to believe that he could forgive himself, and could receive the welcome that was offered him.

These women who had brought him up - _they_ were his home. The love with which they had raised him was his deep well of water; his point on the compass; the strength that kept him as steady as it was possible to be through both the fearful, and the merely difficult, passages of his life. But he had exiled himself, cut himself off from his home.

He could see more clearly now the judgement and sentence he had passed on himself following Rachael's death. He believed himself guilty. He did not allow himself to grieve. He didn't believe he deserved to. He had forbidden himself passage down that sad but necessary trail of mourning, and so he had lingered in a waste land that grew colder, harsher and more barren as time passed.

Sadly, the (mostly) well-meaning family who had taken him in perceived none of this. Heath was reserved, even stoic. He was hard-working, and he offered very little emotional commentary about his life before the Barkleys. He had a knack for living and working with all kinds of folks. He was adaptable, easy-going, and thus he could fit himself to the needs of the family.

As the months passed, Heath developed a deep attachment to all the members of his adopted family, even Nick, who had needed _many_ months to stop seeing Heath as a mortal insult and an annoyance. Heath knew Nick felt badly about that, but he honestly didn't hold it against him. He reckoned not everyone could be as profoundly civilized as Jarrod, or as inexhaustibly compassionate as Audra, or as strong-minded and optimistic as Victoria.

Heath had coached himself to operate within the Barkley reality. There was much to love about that reality, so much so that Heath could forget at times that he was an exile. But while his life on the ranch and with this new family moved ahead, still he had staked his tent down in a barren, unprotected place, and most of the rest of him was camped out there unseen and untended. He was slowly wearing down and wearing thin under the constant battering of the elements. He was wearing thin and starting to fray, to be honest, but on a regular day, still mostly holding out the weather. No big holes or leaks, no problems an outside observer would notice.

Spring came round again. Heath had been with the Barkleys then for a year; it was the first anniversary of Leah's and Rachael's deaths. He traveled up to Strawberry to see Hannah. He did some repairs around the cabin, and checked on the two headstones. He was numb. He felt brittle, as though any sudden shock might cause him to shatter. He knelt by those graves for hours and just felt empty. Then he hugged Hannah, told her he loved her, and said he'd be back to pester her to come down for the winter, once he got back from the cattle-buying trip he and Nick had planned.

Heath had been looking forward to going out in the trail with Nick back in June. They traveled well together, complemented each other. Heath had hoped the trek might help him shake the heavy, hollow mood that had become for him a daily presence. He focused instead on Nick, and thought about how far their partnership – and their friendship - had come since their very rocky beginning.

Heath and Nick had several pleasant, regular days on their buying trip into Nevada. _Regular_ ended abruptly with their arrest and incarceration in Adam Risley's slave labor camp. This was a very bad situation that quickly spiraled into a several-month-long nightmare, precipitated in part by Heath's injudicious backtalk, a mistake that got him whipped to within an inch of his life and made a bad situation desperate.

Thinking back, Heath was pretty sure his hollow, dysphoric state of mind might have led him to make the mistakes he did in Nevada. Of all people, he should have known – still, they had been in the hands of a madman, and Heath had no regrets about what he did to get his brothers safely away.

What he experienced over the months that followed, as a prisoner and a fugitive, had battered his mind as much as his body. Heath was starting to see now, that nightmarish as that time was, he had begun that journey already wounded, already bled nearly dry, already cut off from his center, his strength. He had come home, but he hadn't recovered. He kept losing his way in and out of his own mind. He couldn't see his way back to himself, and he had begun to despair that he ever would.

They heard Hannah's laughing voice coming from the cabin, blending with Audra's willing soprano, and Jarrod picking up the bass line. Someone was keeping rhythm with silverware on the tabletop.

 _I got my hand on the gospel plow_

 _Wouldn't take nothing for my journey now_

 _Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on, hold on_

 _Hold on_

 _Hold on_

 _Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on, hold on_

He felt Nick's warm hand on his shoulder.

"C'mon, little brother, let's head back. I want to see Hannah getting Jarrod to sing."

"Well she did get you to cook."

"So tell me, Heath, what surprising thing did she ever get _you_ to do?" Nick tossed the question out in casual jest. Heath promptly blushed, tried to hide it, and then pretended he didn't hear the question. Nick stopped in his tracks and turned to face his brother.

"Oh, no. C'mon. Give. What'd she make you do."

Heath started to answer, but then realized he couldn't manage it while looking Nick in the eye. He hesitated, grimaced uncomfortably, cleared his throat, and then looked an appeal at Nick, hoping he'd let him off the hook.

"Uh-uh. What. Speak."

Speaking to Nick's boots, he took a deep breath and mumbled, "I used to be their dummy when they were making …."

"What? I can't hear you. Making _what_?"

" _Dresses_. OK? Rachael and Hannah sometimes made dresses. So sometimes I'd have to be their – their - what do you call it - their mannequin."

Nick nearly fell over laughing. Heath stuck his hands in his pockets, his face red.

"Was this just when you were little?"

"No – I was – it depended on what the order was, sometimes – if one of the ladies in town –"

Nick howled. The image of his full-grown brother, rugged soldier-cowboy that he was, draped in a dress intended for one of those plump righteous ladies in town was just too much. He wiped his eyes and tried to catch his breath.

"You know what else is funny about that, Heath, aside from the picture of you in a dress."

"What?" Scowling, Heath couldn't quite suppress a smile.

"The thought of how shocked that customer would be if she could see this here cowboy wearing her dress. She might even be jealous – you are awfully pretty."

Heath blushed again, but they were both laughing, and Nick threw his arm over Heath's shoulders. As they turned to walk back to the cabin, Heath sighed.

"What?"

"You're going to tell Jarrod and Audra, aren't you."

Nick just laughed. Heath smiled, shook his head, and thought, _I can see the way home now. I can see it._


	32. Chapter 32 - Home Repairs

_Of every tear that sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, some good is born, some gentler nature comes. In the destroyer's steps there spring up bright creations that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of light to heaven._

 _Charles_ _Dickens_

 _"The Old Curiosity Shop"_

Jarrod leaned back against the wall of the cabin, now cozy and warm against the chill of the mid-November mountain night. He stretched his legs out in front of him and took a sweet, chest-warming swallow of the hot cider Hannah had heated up on the stove as an after dinner treat. He was pleasantly fatigued, and pleasantly at ease. Jarrod, The Eldest, was never completely free of vigilance or surrogate-father worry about his immediate family. This responsibility, willingly accepted after his father's death and well-suited to his temperament, had become weightier since Heath's arrival to the family. Jarrod was admitting to himself tonight that, owing to his own combination of uncharacteristic denial and unintentional ignorance as to the state of affairs of and between his family members, he had spent the past year and a half in a state of constant tension and discomfort. Occasionally flaring in intensity as events unfolded – or unraveled into catastrophe, as they did this summer – even during calm interludes Jarrod's considerable intuition and interpersonal sensitivity would never allow the anxiety to remit completely. On the contrary, he was always burdened to some extent by his awareness that he was ignoring something terribly important.

Tonight, however, he was pleased that all his siblings were present and safe, that a great deal had been shared between them, and if Heath was not exactly _well_ , he at least seemed to be present and accounted for. He and Nick had come back laughing from their walk outside, and that was a sound that had been sorely missed by all. What Nick had found so hilarious he had not yet revealed, saying – to Heath's obvious discomfort – that he would have to find the _right moment_ to share his discovery.

Thinking further afield, Jarrod was glad to know their mother was safely at home, and that it was likely John Smith had joined her there sometime today. Jarrod's mouth curled up in slight amusement as he brushed over that scenario in his mind. _I suspect Silas will find himself the recipient of considerably more household responsibilities than my mother is usually willing to delegate, at least for the next few days._

Audra's laugh drew his attention back to the small common room. Since returning with Nick, Heath had been prowling about the place, finding things to fix. He was clearly in better spirits, but remained restless and distractible. Audra tried to get him to play chess, and he made a concerted effort, but found he really couldn't sit still and concentrate on the game. Jarrod could see he was frustrated and a little ashamed; Audra, in turn, decided to abandon the game herself, and follow along with Heath, which made him smile.

At the moment Heath was cutting glass to repair a few window panes at the front of the house. Audra went to sit by him, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders against the chill coming in from the open window. Blending in with Audra's laugh Jarrod heard an odd sound, a hooting whistle: a clear musical toot followed – after a brief pause - by a staccato string of toots, increasing in frequency like the bouncing of a ball. Jarrod realized with surprise it was Heath making that sound.

In response, a call came from the woods: a descending trill of toots very much like the whinny of a horse – but strangely high-pitched. Audra laughed and clapped her hands.

"Heath, do that again. I've never heard anything like it!"

The duet came again – the bouncing-ball series of notes, and then the trilling whinny from somewhere out in the dark. Audra was delighted, and then set herself to trying to make that sound herself. Hannah brought the two some warm cider.

"Talking to the screech owls tonight, Heath?" she said, and smiled affectionately at Audra's first attempts at hooting. "They've missed you too, I think. That's the girl owl out there," she explained to Audra. "She thinks Heath is flirting with her."

Carrying Hannah's wool wrap, Nick came over, curious, though not just about the owls.

"When'd you learn to be a glazier, Heath?" Jarrod leaned forward to listen. He'd been wondering that himself.

"Well, if you want to be warm in the winter, and you don't want to live in a cave with no windows, you better learn how."

"I see your point, though that doesn't really answer my question," Nick said as he laid the shawl over Hannah's shoulders.

"Heath was always runnin' off to learn how to do things, whenever anything needed done around this place," Hannah said, nodding her thanks to Nick. "Tradesmen and journeymen come through town, Heath'd be right on 'em, watching how they do what they do. Other kids in town would be following asking for pennies, and most times the journeymen would figure that's what Heath was up to – or that he was trying to steal stuff. But sometimes they'd actually teach him a few things, isn't that right, Heath?"

Heath nodded, smiling. "That smithy, Jackson, he'd come through every few weeks, he got to know me and would let me hang around. And the glazier too – he was an Italian guy – Napoli was his name. Yeah, I'd learn a few tricks and a few useful things. Plenty of them weren't so welcoming, so I'd learn what I could from watching - or I learned how to duck and run. And sometimes I learned how to take a beating, if they were quicker than me." He said this benignly, his eyes on the pane of glass he was carefully fitting into the worn wooden frame. He didn't notice the look of pained surprise Audra shared with her brothers. "Every little bit helped. None of us liked having workmen come out to the house. Most times they wouldn't come at all – and if they did, they'd overcharge, or they'd just be rude, or sometimes they'd be downright dangerous." This he said not benignly at all.

Jarrod had a vivid image in his own mind of what kinds of threats these three women could have faced. Their social status would make them likely targets, and allow them little to no protection from whatever law enforcement existed here. He saw Heath's gaze go distant. The muscles moved along his jaw and his shoulders tensed. Even from across the room, attuned as he was trying to be, Jarrod could sense his brother struggling to set the memory aside. In the next moment, Heath took a slow, deliberate breath in, and narrowed his eyes intently at the casement he was repairing, focused on completing his task.

Jarrod came over to the group as Heath was finishing, glad to see his posture and his expression slowly relax. He reached to help Heath reset the window back into place.

Heath met his eyes. _Present and accounted for,_ Jarrod thought.

"Thanks, Jarrod," Heath smiled at him. "That part's definitely easier with an extra pair of hands."

Jarrod smiled back and squeezed his shoulder. He found himself picturing Heath riding out of Stockton, having been run off Barkley range like a stray dog, just as everyone predicted he would be. That thought made him queasy and sad. He thanked God for his sister's curiosity and her colossally bad judgment, which led her to go into town after Heath and eventually turn his trajectory back to them.

And speaking of Audra and her curiosity – "Hannah, I believe you owe us a tale about that big black horse you call Nox? How about it, before we all get too sleepy to listen? You tell us your part, and we'll fill you in on our part."

"Alright, Barkley children, I'll tell you, though my part of the story is a sad one." She settled herself in her rocking chair.

Audra, Nick and Jarrod each found a comfortable spot to sit. Heath finished cleaning up around the window, then went into one of the sleep rooms and emerged carrying a polished, dome-shaped wooden carrying case about the size of a carpetbag. He set it carefully on a canvas he had unrolled onto the table, and set out some tools, a drop container of oil, and some small metal machine parts.

"Hannah, I'm going to get this fixed up while you're doing your tale-tellin'," he said, unlatching the curved top and lifting it straight up and off the machine inside.

"Thank you, baby, it's been running a little rough, and the stitch hiccups sometimes."

Jarrod was intrigued. "Is that a sewing machine? It's beautiful." Under the polished hood, the black sewing machine shone, the fleur-de-lis decorations and the word "SINGER" glistening gold in the lamplight.

"You bet. This beauty ain't never gonna die, not if you treat her right. I brought some spare parts this time once I remembered I could finally afford to buy some." He looked admiringly at it. "It's an amazing invention. Took every penny I earned at the Baum's farm after the war. I bought it broken and used from a tailor the Levis knew in Albuquerque and fixed it up – strapped that box on my back and carried it all the way back here."

Nick came over to look, and nudged Heath with a chuckle. "I'd think you'da _wanted_ that thing to break down from time to time, hmm?"

Heath, to Jarrod's surprise, blushed slightly at this mysterious comment and narrowed his eyes at Nick, who laughed at him. Before Jarrod could ask him to clarify, Nick, still grinning, had turned back to Hannah to encourage her to tell her story.


	33. Chapter 33 - A Little Night Music

_Come learn with me the fatal song  
Which knits the world in music strong,  
Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes,  
Of things with things, of times with times,  
Primal chimes of sun and shade,  
Of sound and echo, man and maid,  
The land reflected in the flood,  
Body with shadow still pursued._

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson_

 _"Woodnotes"_

 _What was any art but a mould in which to imprison for a moment the shining elusive element which is life itself - life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose._

 _Willa Cather_

 ** _Strawberry, California, August, 1874_**

Sitting in her rocking chair and telling the tale months later, Hannah would wonder over it, that she had only known them for less than a day. Peter and Elsinore, and Nox, the enormous, beautiful black mare who seemed as much a part of the family as a sister or a daughter: an unlikely family that had appeared at Hannah's doorstep needing a refuge for the night, and were gone the following day. No-one to whom Hannah had spoken could say they saw the young couple alive after that.

Learning of the tragedy, it was as if she had been struck a near-fatal wound by a blade so sharp and swift she hardly felt it pass through her. As a lightning strike from a passing storm can obliterate an unwary traveler, so the fate of the two young people almost seemed to Hannah a natural consequence of the atmosphere of brooding cruelty that had lowered over the mountains all that summer. Menace was moving in the air, darkening the days with foreboding, and scouring Hannah's sleep with nightmares and memories of loss and flight and fear. The two travelers were struck aside in a flash of violence, so quick it was almost a painless hemorrhage, a silent shock.

They were, some might say with a shrug, in the wrong place at the wrong time. But Hannah would bear witness to their presence and their passing. That was all she could do to honor something unique and beautiful, so brutally and thoughtlessly cut down.

Since June, Hannah had been oppressed with a feeling that the mountains were full of malevolent forces. She worried for Heath, knowing that he had ridden out with his brother to trek across the Sierras to Nevada. He had come to her to visit the graves just before he left, and Hannah could see no peace in him; if anything, the emptiness in his eyes had grown darker and deeper.

Then in July, the news reports and the gleeful rumors began. Leah Thomson's brat, the bastard who presumed to be a Barkley, had been locked up for rustling. He was being tried for murder. He had escaped and killed a whole posse of lawmen. He was a war-crazed killer, he was a murderous gold-digging opportunist, blackmailing a respectable family. Citizen's posses were tracking him all through the eastern hills with their ropes at the ready. These stories were shouted with laughter over whiskey and beer in the saloon, as bets were taken over the time and manner of the violent death soon to come to Leah's son. Hannah moved unnoticed through these scenes, trying to hear the truth behind the leering speculation, and would come back home feeling as though she had been swimming in sewage for all the meanness and cruelty in their words.

It was during this ominous time that Peter, Elsinore, and Nox appeared, emerging slowly up the trail to Hannah's house with a small covered wagon in tow. They had been preceded, for at least five or ten minutes, by the sound of a violin– in stops and starts, interrupted by animated debate – playing a complex melody. The tune was completely unfamiliar to Hannah, and she could at most categorize it as "classical", which was a term she had heard applied to that brand of music that came from Europe, and was understood and enjoyed only by wealthy city-dwellers and university professors.

Hannah was outside, hanging wet laundry on a line to dry in the fitful, humid August breeze. She paused in her task, first to listen to the remarkable music drifting up the trail, then to puzzle over the energetic conversation about the music. There were two voices: a man, with a pleasant light tenor and a gentle tone, and a woman, whose voice and frequent laughter were humorously hoarse and fluid. Hannah could not understand what they were saying. At first she thought this was because the topic was foreign to her, but she then realized the couple was not speaking English.

This fact fled her mind when the wagon rolled into view, gradually emerging from the variegated light and shadow of the pine wood. A smile spread across her face as she considered the strange sight. The wagon was sedately and smoothly drawn along by the mare Hannah would come to know as Nox. Her black coat gleamed in the sun, her voluminous wavy mane was groomed and flowing over her shoulders, and the feathered hair above her fetlocks accentuated her smooth, high-stepping gait the way evening gloves can draw the eye to a woman's graceful arms and shoulders. She drew the rustic, simple wagon forward along the dusty trail, her grace and elegant bearing investing it all with dignity and significance.

Riding upon the mare's back, but facing backward toward the driver, was a slim, long-limbed young woman with a head of wild blonde hair barely tamed into a coil on top of her head. Her cheeks were flushed with the heat and her laughter, her cotton dress was hiked up above her knees as she sat astride the mare, and she was playing a violin. The lively debate about the best way to play the melody was being carried on with the driver of the wagon: a clean-shaven young man with a mop of brown hair that looked like it hadn't been cut in a year. To Hannah's delight, just as they came fully into view, the young man reached behind him to pull out another violin, and began to play in order to more effectively argue his point as to the proper phrasing of the piece.

It occurred to Hannah that these two needed such a responsible and dignified horse to pull their wagon, because neither of them were driving or even paying the least bit of attention to where they were going. Nox brought them precisely up to the front of Hannah's house and stopped.

"What is that music you're playing?" Hannah thought that seemed a reasonable greeting for such an odd arrival.

The girl gave her a sunny, breathless smile. "Brahms," she said, in faintly accented English. "String Quartet No. 2 in A minor. He wrote it just last year. I found sheet music for it back in St. Louis. We want to play it as a duet, because, well –" she shrugged. "Unless you play cello? Or viola?"

Hannah laughed. "Child, I don't think I even know what a cello is. But I can see you two love your music. What brings you up this way? Your horse here seems to think this is where you should be right now."

The young man spoke up. "Yes, Nox often makes such decisions for us," he said a bit sheepishly. "Though we were trying to get off the main trail and find a place to camp. I didn't think we'd find a homestead up this way. I'm sorry if we've bothered you."

Hannah was intrigued by this couple, and she certainly sensed no threat from either of them. "No bother at all. If you'd like to stay here for the night, you can water your beautiful mare over there and get washed up yourselves by the back door."

And so, just like that, Hannah had guests for the evening, and was glad for the company. Their youth and open, easy manner lifted some of her loneliness for the time, and distracted her from her pervasive disquietude.

Over evening chores and dinner, she gathered the facts of them: first of all, they were Dutch, hence the unintelligible conversation that sounded almost like English. They were husband and wife for almost two years, and had travelled together all the way from the northern part of the state of New York. Elsinore – Peter called her Ilsa – came from a wealthy family known for making fortunes in shipping, and for breeding expensive horses, especially the line of Friesian draft horses such as Nox.

"I do not love my family's way of life. I love music. I love Peter. And I love horses," Ilsa admitted, "but I _especially_ love Nox. She comes from a champion bloodline, but she was born with that white blaze, which she could pass on to a foal – so they decided she was worthless for breeding." She broke out into a huge smile. "So that meant _I_ could have her. I raised her from a baby. I would play violin while I'd ride her through the woods, because my family didn't want to hear me practice. Nox loves music, it calms her. Her real name is _Nachtmuzik_ , Nox for short."

Hannah tried out the pronunciation. Peter tried to help.

"It should sound a little like you are clearing your throat," he said, helpfully. "The word means literally _night-music,_ but it's used to mean _serenade,_ a song one would play in the evening, to entertain, or romance. Nox is named after a famous chamber piece written by Mozart."

As their story unfolded, Ilsa described growing up loving music (especially violin), Peter, and Nox; this brought her eventually into direct conflict with the will of her family. Peter came from a working class family; they met through their study of violin. Both their families declared them fools, and they did appear to be fools, in love and full of wanderlust. They took their violins, their beautiful mare – who, they informed Hannah, was ferociously protective - and the shoemaking/leatherworking skills learned from Peter's family – and they set out across the country with no firm destination in mind. They earned money playing music when they could, or by cobbling and leatherworking when they had to. Nox brought them across the whole wide country, out under the open sky, all three miraculously unscathed. Ilsa kept Nox groomed and healthy, and Nox drew them along with grace and beauty.

Then they reached Strawberry. Nox always drew attention wherever they travelled, but now she had drawn the eye of a greedy, bored, murderous rustler by the name of Jasper.

Jasper was a persistent man, an insistent man, one who was fundamentally incapable of taking _no_ for an answer. This was such a dominant force in him that he was far less successful as a criminal than he could have been. Take, for example, his desire to dismember Heath Barkley and hang him from a tree. When the time came, he would choose to pursue that goal (hoping perhaps to get both Heath _and_ the black horse in the bargain) when he should have been safely out of town selling off stolen horses for a profit. Jasper engaged in single-minded pursuit of what he desired, and did not look to the long-term gain. His lack of long-term success, however, offered little consolation to those unfortunate enough to be standing between Jasper, and what Jasper wants.

He offered to buy the horse from the couple, but offered such a paltry sum that even Peter laughed. Jasper became aggressive, though not quite threatening, as the conversation did not go as he wanted. With an effort and barely containing himself, he retreated to confer with his gang and plan another approach. Peter and Ilsa, still light-hearted, nevertheless did perceive the possibility of trouble in that interaction, and tried to think of ways not to be caught out alone on the trail, in case Jasper pursued them. Hence their detour off the trail up to Hannah's place.

This part of their story did not make Hannah light-hearted in the least, for she knew quite well who – and what - Jasper was. She had heard enough of his bragging around town about his crimes, and just yesterday he had expressed his great pleasure in hearing that Heath had been beaten to a pulp by guards in the Nevada State Prison. Afraid as she was for Heath trapped in Nevada, Hannah realized there were closer dangers, right there in Strawberry. As she helped Peter and Ilsa get settled in for the night, she worried deeply for the couple's safety, if Jasper had decided to get that horse.


	34. Chapter 34 - Swing Low, Sweet Chariot

_Teach us to number our days,_

 _That we may gain a heart of wisdom._

 _Psalm 90:12_

 _Loss is nothing else but change, and change is Nature's delight._

 _Marcus Aurelius (121-180 A.D.)_

The visitors left in the morning.

Already by an hour after sunup the day was hot and unusually humid for this mountain elevation. Hannah was able to convince the couple to stay for some breakfast and to make use of the outdoor shower that Heath had contrived by the back porch. Traveling rough as Ilsa and Peter had been, they couldn't resist the chance to get truly clean for the first time in weeks.

Still, they were bright-eyed and eager to continue their trek westward; as they had traversed this last mountain range, they envisioned the broad central valley of California as an emerald carpet, rolled out to lead them to their first glimpse of the Pacific.

Their idea was to make their meandering way via Sacramento to San Francisco, seeking out other musicians and composers. As violinists, Ilsa and Peter both preferred the intimacy and interaction of chamber music, but they were eager to explore all the possible musical venues they might encounter. Opera was hugely popular, and they expected to find orchestral opportunities in the growing cities. They talked excitedly about the musical community they hoped to discover in the booming metropolis of San Francisco, and then in the next sentence would laugh over how much they were enjoying the rustic life of wandering minstrels.

Hannah was charmed by them - how could she not be? Their journey was so different from Hannah's own coming of age that they seemed almost otherworldly. In the gloom of that fearful summer the brightness of their untroubled optimism was blinding; Hannah wondered if she could trust her own sight. She questioned the danger she sensed, as they prepared to leave.

"They were so sure they'd be safe. So innocent. And I'd been so stirred up with fears all summer, I thought, maybe I am making too much of this. They'd come so far on their own.

"But I didn't live through what I've lived through by not listening to myself, and I had a bad feeling about them getting back on the trail. I tried to convince them to stay. Lord knows I tried. I told them they should wait, that I could keep them hidden until Jasper moved on, but even so, they wouldn't listen. They had their eyes on the horizon."

Ilsa hung from the side of the wagon to wave goodbye as they descended back down to the main trail. Hannah watched until they passed into the dark green pine shadows and were lost to view. The rising dust of their passage sparkled briefly in the morning sunshine, lingered, then settled to the ground.

A few days later, Hannah made her usual trip to town, ostensibly to pick up a supply of rice and beans and a few other staples. These days, when she hiked up to Strawberry, mostly what she aimed to do was listen. What she heard each time seemed to go from bad to worse, and each time, she came home feeling more alone, and more troubled in her mind.

She had begun to hope, though, that perhaps the two young ones had made their way safely out of the mountains. She'd heard no talk about them since they left, though they certainly drew notice in their passing through town. Peter had told her over dinner that they had played some music at the general store in exchange for some food and supplies, and had drawn as big an audience as one could muster in a place like Strawberry.

And so, on this still, humid, hazy day, Hannah carried hope with her like a delicate, fragile treasure. Her errands completed, she found a shady spot outside by a back window of the saloon where she could rest her feet, sip her well water, and listen to the talk inside.

"Mitch, you read, c'mon, we want the latest. Mail brought the papers up from the valley."

"All right, gimme a beer, lemme see. Headline. _Dramatic Developments in the Leviathan Murder Case."_

Oh, this'll be good."

Mitch continued reading, hesitating and sounding out the more complex or unfamiliar words, but plowing ahead gamely with the eager encouragement of his listeners.

" _Finally responding to public outcry, the federal court has re- ,_ um _, re-manded Heath Barkley, self-admitted assassin of five law enforcement officers, back to con-fine-ment in the State Prison. The ill-begotten murderer has been returned to prison from the hospital after recovering from a beating he most certainly deserved._ "

This opening paragraph drew sage nods and enthusiastic approval from the audience.

 _"The community can rest a bit more easily, now that the felon had been placed back behind bars pending his trial. It is this editor's opinion that Heath Barkley remains a certain threat to the cit- ,_ hmm _, **cit** izenry. It is well known that such low breeding and immoral upbringing will in-var-i-ably lead to violence and criminal activity. Add to this Barkley's ev-i-dent mental insta-, _um, _insta-bility and military -_ expert eyesNo, that's _expertise,"_ he read on _, "and it is clear he must be in-, incan-, in-in **cinerated** away from decent society."_

"Incinerated? Let me see that."

"What's _evident instability?"_

"Mitch, you fool, it says _incarcerated._ That means locked up."

"Oh."

"Low breedin', well that's for damn straight. Hell, I don't know why they pulled him out to put him in the hospital in the first place. Guards beat him up for a reason, right? Now the doctors fixed him up, guards are gonna have to start all over again! Come to think of it, maybe that's _why_ they fixed him up. Keep teachin' that dog a lesson, over and over again. Maybe he'll finally learn to _stay_ down when he's put down."

Hannah pressed her mouth against her arm to keep from making a sound, as her fragile hope crumbled and the pain swelled in her heart. She wanted to scream and howl. _I can't lose him too, I can't lose him too, please Jesus, bring him safe home, please –_ she rocked silently, talking to God, to Leah, to Rachael, asking them all to help her through.

Unfortunately, there was no good news coming. On the contrary -

More talk and commotion could be heard from the window. Several out-of-town deputies swaggered into the saloon, fresh from hunting a rustler, Jasper by name, who had been hitting a few ranches around Sonora and had made the mistake of wounding the son of a local circuit judge. The posse tracked Jasper and his gang up into the hills, and had ridden out with some men from Strawberry to find the rustlers' camp.

Hannah sat up and listened, her mouth dry with the taste of dread.

"What happened? You find that weasel's camp?"

"Oh yeah, we found it all right. Deserted. What a mess." They now had the complete attention of everyone in the saloon, and that of the woman outside the window.

"Looked like a bloody battlefield. We found that covered wagon that those two young'uns drove, the violin players, remember? Jasper had been after them for that fancy black mare, to buy her – looks like he decided to just take her instead."

"What do you mean, battlefield?"

"The wagon was all shot full of holes, ransacked, and then burned, and the ground was all torn up like a herd of elk had come through. Jasper had a few small shelters built out there, and there was a shed, no windows, more like a big box – I'm thinking they shut the mare up in there 'cause it all looked like she had put up a hell of a fight. That box was bashed all to hell on the inside, blood, and hair, and splinters, and hoofmarks like she went crazy in there – or was in there for a long time – or both." The deputy sounded horrified.

"And those two young'uns? What about them?"

"Dunno. Dead, most likely. We didn't go looking too long for bodies – the way that wagon was shot up – who could've survived that?"

"They're crazy to be out roaming on their own like that anyway –"

"So Jasper and his crew slipped off, did they? Got the horse and gone."

Hannah's voice had grown rough as she told this tale to the four siblings, who were listening with growing distress to every word.

"I told you it was a sad story," she said softly, and fell silent.

Heath practically leaped to her side. He knelt in front of her rocking chair and wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.

"Hannah, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry you've been alone –"

"You're back, child, you're fine, and you're here, and that's all that matters –" Hannah tried to reassure, but the months of sadness came welling up, and she burst into tears. Her sobs were muffled as she hid her face on his shoulder. She wept for some time, wordlessly, but holding on to him fiercely as if to convince herself he was really there. He rubbed her back gently as he hugged her and hummed a quiet melody. Her face still hidden against his chest, her voice rough and barely audible, she picked up the tune.

 _"I'm sometimes up, I'm sometimes down - comin' for to carry me home – But still my feet are heavenly bound, comin' for to carry me home - - Swing low, sweet chariot –"_

He sang along with her for another verse, and then she sighed and laid leaned her head on his shoulder, exhausted.

He spoke softly to her, "Hannah, it's late, let's get you to bed, OK?"

She nodded silently. She started to stand, but Heath picked her easily up in his arms and stood, spinning her around once so she laughed, her face still wet. "You such a big boy now, Heath," she teased. "Showin' off how strong you are."

"You bet," he said, smiling down at her. "Always want to show off for you." He carried her off to the sleeping room that used to be his mother's and Rachael's. They could be heard talking softly for a few minutes, then Heath returned to the common room and knelt down to stoke the stove, his expression thoughtful.

Audra leaned toward her brothers, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders as if to ward off the tragedy Hannah had described. "This is heartbreaking! He _killed_ them? Those two young people? For a horse? How can someone be so evil - it's so wrong - oh, they must have been so frightened -" Audra's heart ached for them. Her brothers were close to tears themselves. "And poor Hannah, alone with all this."

"God, what a terrible, senseless loss," Jarrod said somberly. "So sad." He was remembering vividly what it had been like to be on the receiving end of Jasper's ambush. He and Audra and Heath, armed and somewhat prepared, had barely gotten out alive. He thought it very unlikely those two young musicians had survived the attack.

"We know where Jasper is, though," said Nick, grasping for a concrete action to ease the pain of the tale he had just heard. "Right, Jarrod? We can do that at least. Make sure he's charged and convicted and hanged for it."

Heath nodded sadly, his eyes on the flames in the stove. "Too bad that can't bring 'em back."

"Sounds like the horse gave them quite a battle," Nick commented.

"We know she's protective," Jarrod concurred.

"I'm sure she would have fought. She would have tried to protect them, to help them get away." Audra had a vivid memory of the black mare in a defensive rage, charging at Heath as he set up his shot to kill the rabid dog. She had seemed unstoppable. "Those men would have had to hurt her badly to even get her in that box. Maybe they left her in there until she was too weak to fight them." Her eyes were tear-filled and distant as she visualized the scene. "Maybe – maybe Peter and Ilsa got away? With her fighting like that, it would have been their only chance – if Sombra – if Nox held the men off for long enough that they could make a run for it? It's possible, don't you think?"

All three of her brothers looked at her, and at each other, each considering this possibility and picturing the scene Audra was painting.

Lost in thought, Heath turned back to stare at the fire flickering behind the grate. Unconsciously, he rubbed his hand over his left shoulder, feeling the place where the bone had broken all those years ago, when his uncle had thrown him onto the back porch of the hotel, intent on teaching Leah's little bastard a lesson. The body memory was still so vivid, as were so many of them. He could smell the rain and mud and damp wood, feel the brutal impact of the floorboards as he landed, feel the snap and pain of the collarbone as if it were all happening right now. He winced almost imperceptibly - just a slight tightening of his eyes and mouth - as he passed quickly through that moment in his mind. The memory that drew him was later on. Rachael. He could feel her long dark hair between his fingers as she held him, could feel her protective nature, and he knew that she did not hesitate at the last to face Matt Simmons in defense of Leah's son. He remembered, too, the dirge-like drumming of the dark horse as she bore down upon him, ready to go to war, if need be, to protect his sister. Audra was right – Nox would have been that couple's only chance to survive, slim as it was.

Nick found himself watching Heath. The firelight shone on his face. Nick could see from the tension around his eyes that Heath's thoughts were roaming in some other battleground. Nick himself was considering how the horse had fought, and what it would have taken to lock her up in that shed. He too had witnessed her fury, as she backed Heath up against the side of the barn. He thought about the many battlegrounds he and his brothers had seen in their lives, and was wondering if it was possible the two Dutch kids had escaped, when Nick was suddenly overcome by a memory of his own, so vivid he had to catch his breath.

 _Heath, flogged near to death, pleading with Risley to free his brother._

 _"I am his father's bastard son. The family will be better off without me. They will accept your judgement of me. Please let my brother go. They will be grateful to you that you have returned their true son to them..."_

 _Heath lay in the dirt, bleeding, crying softly in pain with each breath he took. Risley circling him, trailing the bullwhip beside him in the dust._

 _"So, this one is a bastard son of your line. One hopes that exposure to good society would rehabilitate, but in my experience, harsher measures are needed, which a family like yours, I expect, would be reluctant to take. In that sense perhaps it is a good thing you landed here, so that I can do your family that service, Mr. Barkley. Peterson, put 597 in the box. Let the prisoners watch him cook for a while. Mr. Barkley - Nick - please come to my office so we can make arrangements before your brother the attorney returns."_

 _The guards began dragging Heath toward an ugly metal box not much bigger than a steamer trunk. It had a latched door with a padlock, a few air holes, and the air surrounding it was distorted with the waves of heat radiating from its surface. Understanding now what they intended to do with him, Heath began to struggle in earnest, fear giving him a last burst of strength._

Lost in the memory, Nick winced, still hearing the echo of Heath's hoarse, desperate voice as he fought not to be locked in that nightmarish contraption.

 _"No. No. **No** -" _

"Nick." Heath had felt his brother's intense gaze on him, and what with all the talk about being shut up in a box, he could make a good guess as to where Nick's thoughts had gone. He sat down beside him with a hand on his shoulder. "I know. I'm sorry."

Nick gathered himself back from the memory and searched Heath's eyes for a moment. Then, satisfied that his brother seemed truly to be here beside him, both in body and in mind, he smiled. "Always good to have you back, Heath."

Jarrod was thinking about what John Smith had told him of their first meeting with Jasper and his gang. His attorney mind had already noticed and filed away the fact that Jasper had lied about where he got the horse; there were no waggoneers or auctioning of a dead family's estate. Jasper had stolen the horse, killed the owners, and tried to beat the mare into submission himself, until he finally gave up and sold her to Jameson.

Jarrod was now remembering the laughing comment Jasper had made to Heath, down in that riverside camp in the valley.

 _So now the Barkleys have a pair of you. Two crazy, beat-up, good-for-nothing workhorses from Strawberry._


	35. Chapter 35 - O Mourner, You Must Believe

_He who created us without our help will not save us without our consent._

 _Saint Augustine_

* * *

 _You're back, you're fine, you're here now, that's all that matters -_

Hannah rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes, drained after the rush of fear and sadness she had held at bay all these months. That flood was easing. She thought, now, she could finally drop her guard a bit and allow herself to feel her joy and her profound relief: her boy was here and he was alright. She held him tight, wanting to feel the proof of it in her bones, as she sang a silent thank you for his return.

Now she lay on her side and watched as he brought a lamp to the bedside table, lighting it with a match from his shirt pocket. He turned the flame down low and pulled a blanket up from the foot of the bed. He knelt beside her. He looked sad, but not quite so empty and far away as he had been.

"I'm sorry I left you so alone this past year," he said simply.

"I was missing you, and worrying about you, baby, I won't lie. It's been a long, dark stretch. You left me alone, yes, but I still had my Leah and my Rachael to talk to and help me through till you come back. You, though – you cut yourself off, child, and I didn't know how to call you home. You seem –" She stopped, hesitating, uncharacteristically, to speak her thoughts.

He looked anxiously into her eyes. "What, Hannah? I seem – what?"

She searched his face, her expression grave, thoughtful. "You seem in some way worse than even when you came back from the war," she said finally.

Heath didn't think he flinched visibly, but he felt her words go through him like a shock that took his breath away. He looked at the floor, but now all he could see was the toothy grimace of the dead rabid hound, an arrow protruding from its snarling mouth. _I don't want to hear this. I don't want to see this. I just want to move on, please, I just -_

"I'm not tellin' you something you don't know," she said gently.

"No, you're not," he whispered, still looking at the dead dog.

"You were in Hell in New Mexico, and believe me, I know that place. I could see some of where you'd been in your eyes. But you knew you had _us_. You knew the way back." She closed her eyes, picturing each time she'd seen him since that spring day they buried Leah. She and Rachael had sent him off with their love and his mother's instructions to go see the Barkleys. He had been sad, of course; he'd been reluctant, and understandably cautious and worried. His letters gave a picture of the gauntlet he was facing down there on that ranch, but in his words they could still hear his resilience, his willingness to move forward.

That changed after Rachael's death. By his last visit to Strawberry, to Hannah he seemed rigid and empty, like a frozen glass that could shatter at the slightest touch. And then he went to Nevada.

"How did you get through it, Hannah, when you ran away? When they took your boy? You didn't have anyone –" His voice trailed off. He couldn't break away from the dog's glassy stare. The animal seemed to be laughing at him, the lamplight glistening on his wet, dripping teeth. That queasy, slipping-and-falling feeling rolled over in him, and he clenched his fist around the spent matchstick, hoping the slight pain would keep his mind from skidding and spinning off somewhere.

Hannah watched the struggle on his face. She didn't know what Heath was staring at with such a defeated look in his eyes, but she knew it was nothing in the here and now. Her fear for him stirred and stretched itself a little bigger. "You don't need to look at me for how to get through it, child. You got through it yourself, when you came home from the war. Wasn't smooth and easy, there were good nights and bad nights, but you saw your way.

"All this summer, you were back in Hell. I can hear it in what the folks in town been sayin', I can see it in your face. But this time, you had decided you didn't have _us_ anymore. And how you suppos' to find your way back without that?"

With an effort, he tore his gaze away from the leer of the dead dog. He raised his eyes to her, fighting a too-familiar hopeless feeling as he waited, resigned, to hear her prognosis.

"You don't, do you," she said. "You ain't found your way back. Or maybe you ain't figured out how to _stay_ here."

He shook his head.

"Because you think you're the trouble. You think it's your fault."

He started to speak, but she interrupted him.

"Hush, child. You and Rachael were two of a kind, you know that? Leah used to joke it was because you had the same birthday. So serious. So guilty all the time, both of you, ready to take on the burden for everything and anything. Listen, Heath, what Matt and Martha did is not your fault. I hope maybe you're starting to believe that, 'cause if you don't, honey, after what you been through, I don't know how you're gonna make it back here to me and all these folks who love you."

He tried to smile, wanting somehow to deflect what she was saying to him. "I was telling John right before I came up here that you were always one who could knock some sense into my head. I was pretty sure you'd do me more good than I'd do you, coming up here." Anxious, he tried to read her expression. He wished she would just tell him everything was fine and easy.

She didn't return his smile. She just shook her head seriously and looked into his face for a long moment, her gaze distant but attentive, as though she were listening to faint, far-off music. Then she sighed and closed her eyes, the lines of worry not completely vanished from her brow. "You got a ways to climb, child, a long ways to travel to get back home. You gotta set aside the burdens that aren't yours to carry, 'cause your road is hard enough already. Ain't gonna be smooth and easy. You gonna think about giving up. But I think you know the way."

A shiver ran through him and he swallowed nervously. He suddenly felt exhausted. "Funny, that's just what Silas said to me."

She lay back on her pillow, her eyes gentle on him now, and to his relief she gave him a smile. "He sounds like a smart man."

"He is. He's been a good friend. Hannah?"

"Yes, baby."

"You'll come with me this time? To the valley? For the winter at least?"

"Yes, honey. And I'm looking forward to meeting your girl finally. I like how your eyes look when you talk about her."

* * *

Sleep didn't come easily – it rarely did anymore, though this time Heath found himself wakeful as he thought over all the events of the past day and tried to plan for tomorrow.

Once Hannah had gone to bed, the four siblings had sat by the stove for a while longer, talking quietly about the terrible story they had heard of the two traveling musicians. They debated the possibility that the couple had survived the attack; Jarrod in particular thought it very unlikely, but even he was willing to consider that scenario, and then take the speculation further. If they did get away from the gunfire, where would they have gone? They would have fled into the forest with nothing, most likely, no violins, no supplies, and no money. And if they made it down out of the mountains, what would they have done then? The attack had occurred over three months earlier. If Audra were to start hunting for them (as she clearly had a mind to do, as soon as they got back home), where would she start? They considered that questioning Jasper and Jinks on the matter would be one place to begin, even though it seemed unlikely they'd get a straight answer from either man.

Heath moved some furniture around and got his brothers bedded down on the floor of the common room, and set Audra up in a curtained alcove with a low cot that had been Hannah's. Settling down himself, he tried to steer his thoughts away from Jasper, and the image of the horse being beaten and trapped and locked up in a crate, unable to save her family, and those two kids running for their lives. With an effort, he focused instead on Hannah coming down to the valley, and began reviewing everything he'd need to do tomorrow to get the cabin shut down for the winter.

 _Start at the top and work down. Have to fix those few trouble spots on the roof, and cover the chimney so nothing nests in there. We'll need some lumber to board up the windows…drain the water tanks…have to make a shopping list, will have to get a few things in Strawberry._ The thought of going into Strawberry made him queasy and anxious. He sidestepped that idea. _Maybe Jarrod and Nick could go….though I really should get some shoes for Nox if she's going to pull that cart all the way home...maybe I'll take her to the smithy while they pick up the lumber and hardware? And should we bring the chickens down with us?_

Enumerating these concrete tasks worked eventually, and he dropped off to sleep.

The nightmare woke him before dawn. He jolted awake and sat up, his panicked, panting breath clouding before his eyes in the cold night air. He then stifled a groan, as the abrupt movement of awakening reverberated through his body and sent pain echoing back to him from healing bones, fresh bruises, and stiff muscles. He breathed slowly and carefully. It felt like there had been a frost overnight, and he shivered as the sweat that had soaked his hair and his shirt rapidly cooled. Raising a shaky hand to his face, he wiped his eyes, trying to clear his vision.

He looked around the room. All was quiet and motionless, and he was glad to see it, as that meant he probably hadn't been yelling in his sleep. He sat still for a few more moments, waiting for his heart to stop hammering and his breathing to come back to normal. As he did, he found himself marveling at the utterly unthought-of scene before him: these two brothers and a sister, sleeping here in this little cabin that had contained his childhood. It was a wealth he had never imagined, to have such brothers and a sister, and they were here because of him. _No_ , he thought, _it's more than that. They're here to be **with** me, to stand with me._

* * *

Jarrod lay awake, watching his brother collect himself from the nightmare and then quietly, painfully, extract himself from his bedroll.

He had been out on the trail with Heath during the days immediately following his escape from the prison at Wellington, when he had a fresh bullet wound on top of all his other injuries. To Jarrod's eye, Heath was a bit more mobile now – back then, he would've needed some help to get up off the ground – but, otherwise, as he limped to the kitchen area and began stoking the woodstove, he seemed easily as stiff and sore and slow-moving as he did back then. _Is he waking up this lame every morning?_ Jarrod wondered. _And then dragging himself out to the range to try to get ahead of Nick? 'Stubborn' doesn't even **begin** to describe this. I'm starting to see why Nick finally had to tackle him in the barn to get him to stop. _

The woodstove now ticking and creaking as the iron picked up the heat from the fire and began to warm the cabin, Heath grabbed his jacket and boots and stepped out onto the back porch. He started walking toward the horses, his head down, seeming lost in thought. Jarrod rose then, and got dressed to follow him.

As Heath walked toward the tree line where the horses were tethered, he tried to clear his mind of the nightmare that had waked him. It was different from the usual, and he really didn't want to think it through, but he couldn't yet shake it loose.

 _He was in Strawberry. He was hurrying down the street and trying to get out of the town. There were dogs hunting him, he could hear them baying, barking, getting closer. He couldn't find his way. Small as the town was, still every turn he took led him back to the center. There was growling, barking, coming closer, and now the people in the street were starting to notice him, turning to move toward him, blocking his way._

Remembering, he started to feel short of breath. He tried to walk faster, but just as in the dream, he was clumsy, unsteady. Everything seemed to hurt, and he was shaking all over. He wrapped his arms around his chest, and stopped where he was, not wanting to come upon the horses in this state of mind. He'd learned that lesson already.

Heath stared at the ground, trying to settle himself. He gritted his teeth against a wave of nausea, then realized, too late, that the wave had knocked him clear off his moorings.

 _He ran to the sidewalk, trying doors, looking for some kind of refuge, but everything was locked and boarded against him. Whiskey-smelling men grabbed him, laughing, and threw him back into the street. It was the mob now, men, women, and children. They threw things at him – rocks, bottles, the hiss of angry words – as they herded him into the middle of the town, growling dogs roaming among them. Turning, looking for a path to escape, he saw what waited there for him in the road. The iron box. In a panic, he ran between the buildings. He turned a corner and skidded to a halt as the box appeared before him again, and again, and again, no matter which way he fled, its door now yawning open and blackness within. The crowd was closing him in, blows now falling on him from all sides. He staggered, the pain beating him down, his strength fading._

 _"No. No – I don't want to go back in there…I'll go away, just – just let me go –"_

 _And then suddenly there was his Uncle Matt, stepping in when he could no longer defend himself, grabbing him, shoving him into the gaping black mouth of the box. Heath heard himself crying in frustration and anger as he fought to throw him off, but he could barely lift his arms; the blackness was a physical presence, pressing in on him, drowning him, pushing into his mouth and throat so he couldn't breathe or swallow or yell for help._

 _The shaking inside him had become a drumming, a killing rage pounding in his bones. It shook the ground. He couldn't tell if it was coming from the box, or from him, or if it was a thing they created together. The blackness wrapped around him and called to him in a smooth, seductive southern accent that made his blood run cold. The hands he felt now were gentler, yet that much more terrifying in the threat they contained. Heath went very still, his eyes squeezed shut, thinking_

Please no, not you, you're dead, please stop, I don't want to go there, I don't -

 _"I've missed you, Yankee boy. I'm so glad to see you again. You know you want to destroy him, just as you did me. It's your only way out."_

* * *

"Heath. Heath, it's Jarrod. Can you look at me?" Worried, Jarrod glanced quickly over his shoulder to see if anyone else was up and around. Kneeling on the ground, Heath had suddenly gone motionless. Far from being limp in Jarrod's hands, he was tense to the point of being frozen; he was unresponsive, eyes tightly closed, breathing shallowly through clenched teeth, and whimpering slightly as though he were bracing himself for some terrible assault. "Heath. You're safe, can you open your eyes? Listen to my voice."

* * *

As he stepped off the back porch only a few minutes earlier, Jarrod had mainly wanted to offer Heath some company and help get the day's work started, especially given how gimpy he was looking. He was concerned about the nightmare, but he'd been with Heath through a few of those, and in his experience, once Heath was up and around they tended to fade into the background.

Before he could catch up with his brother, though, he could see something else was going on.

It was clear Heath was bothered, preoccupied – but then he stopped, and seemed to be holding himself against some kind of pain. Worried now that Heath was sick with something, Jarrod hurried to his side. He could hear his breathing was short and ragged, and as Jarrod reached him he started to fall to his knees.

Grabbing his arms to keep him from falling, Jarrod called his name, but then to his alarm, Heath started fighting to get away, and pleading with him to let him go, his voice a terrified rasp. "No. No – I don't…I'll go away, just – just let me go –"

"Go away?" Jarrod was so surprised for a moment he loosened his grip. Heath twisted away from him and immediately stumbled and fell to his hands and knees. Jarrod moved again to contain him, wrapping him in a bear hug and holding him against his chest, calling to him all the while. Still, Heath struggled to get away, his physical efforts weakening but the panic continuing to escalate.

 _What is going on?_ Jarrod's mind was racing. _He's not dreaming, he's not sleeping, he's not beat up and frozen like he was the other night, so what the hell **is** this? _He called to him again and again, and then, a moment later, instead of coming out of whatever _this_ was, Heath went still and silent, shivering like an animal under the claws of a predator.

Jarrod tried again to reach him, speaking gently to him, trying to hold his brother safe while staying still himself. He had for a moment, out of instinct, tried to comfort him by rubbing his arm and his back, but that touch made everything worse - a few tears slid down his brother's face and he seemed to pull even farther into himself. Jarrod thought back to Nevada and some of the history Heath had shared with him as they traveled together. He thought about the impression he'd had on the trail a few days ago, when it had seemed to him that Heath had _gone away_ in his mind someplace and had to take a moment to remember where he was. He hoped, whatever it was, that it would get better with time, because Jarrod could hardly think of anything more frightening than having one's mind get periodically yanked elsewhere, and especially because, as far as he could see, the _elsewhere_ was nowhere pleasant. Not knowing what else to do, Jarrod waited, and held him, and talked to him, hoping that his voice would help Heath make his way back from wherever he had gone.

Though it seemed like forever, Jarrod didn't have long to wait. He could feel Heath gradually relax, his breathing became deeper and more regular, and a few moments later he opened his eyes and leaned into Jarrod's supporting arms. Eyes still on the ground, Heath took a deep breath, then swore, ferociously and fluently, in English, Spanish, and possibly Chinese.

Jarrod smiled with relief. "Good morning to you too, Heath."

As they sat there side by side in the predawn chill, Heath hunched over slightly, a sound of fear and disgust and anger escaping him as he raked his hands into his hair. The pounding of the drums in his head faded slowly, and the sounds of the forest around him reemerged. He swore again in frustration and then threw a rock hard across the garden, hitting a pine tree with a dull _thock_ and sending a few startled jays into flight.

"What happens, Heath? Seems like your mind just goes away sometimes – has that been happening a lot?"

Heath looked briefly startled at Jarrod's question, then fearful, then resigned. "Yeah. A lot. Been getting a little better at seeing when it's gonna happen – been a few times I can nail myself down before – before I –" He scowled at the ground. "Didn't catch it this morning though. And jeez, that nightmare." He shuddered. "Jean Linceul. Haven't had him turn up in my head lately."

 _You know you want to destroy him. Just as you did me._

Jarrod nodded. That made sense. "I remember you telling me about him. You killed him." _At the age of fifteen,_ Jarrod added to himself, sadly.

"Yes, I did." _You know you want to destroy him. It's your only way out._

Jarrod stood and offered Heath a hand up. "How 'bout you let me haul the buckets this morning, and I know there's a hundred things you're going to want to do to get that house ready for winter."

The horses greeted them happily as they received their feed and water. Heath stood by Nox, thinking again about the story they had heard. He ran his hands gently over her scarred back, noticing that she no longer flinched at his touch, and wondered about the battle she had fought.

"I wish you could tell us what happened, Nox," he said.

"Some people say animals don't feel guilt or sadness the way humans do, but I don't agree," Jarrod said. "I think some do. I think Nox does. I think she was as traumatized by what happened to Ilsa and Peter as she was by anything that happened to her physically."

"You may be right," Heath said. "And Jasper was more right than he knew. About the Barkleys and their crazy beat up workhorses from Strawberry."

"Well I don't know about crazy…maybe just a little…but whatever you've done for her, it's helped her to heal. I'm hoping she can help you do the same for yourself."

The two men turned to look as sound of singing came from the cabin. This time it was Audra and Hannah in a spirited duet. As they watched, Hannah shooed Nick across the yard with his basket to collect eggs for breakfast, and waved to them to come in and eat.

 _O mourner mourner you must believe_

 _Goin home in the chariot in the morning_

 _God's healing Grace you will receive_

 _Goin home in the chariot in the morning_


	36. Chapter 36 - The Devil Is a Liar

Jarrod finished bringing feed and water to Coco and came back over to watch Heath, who was measuring the black mare's feet for shoes. As he knelt down between the horses, Nike would periodically swing her head over to see what he was doing and try to nibble on the back of his shirt collar. Jarrod heard him laugh.

"Cut it out, Nike. I swear, I think you're a little jealous."

Heath straightened, carefully, rolling a kink out of his shoulder and brushing the dirt from his knees. He nodded to Jarrod. "You hungry for breakfast?"

"Definitely. But – Heath – you mind if I ask you something first? If you don't want to answer, or it's too much right now, that's fine –"

"Sure, Jarrod, what is it?" Jarrod could see Heath was, on some level, bracing himself for something difficult, and he had to admire his brother's willingness to keep fighting his way back to some kind of sustainable day-to-day existence. He himself hadn't lived a life free of threats, hurts, and losses, but he'd never gotten to a point where most everything was a struggle: sleeping, eating, walking, thinking, or just relying on your own mind to stay attached to your body where it belongs. He studied Heath with concern for some moments as he chose his words, then realized his worried silence was almost certainly making his brother anxious.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Lost in thought. I just – I was wondering – can you tell me what the nightmare was? It seemed like it must have been bad to come back at you like that when you were awake. It seemed different. Like I said, if you don't want to –"

"No, it's OK," Heath said. "You're right. It was different. I've been trying to think it through myself." Tension reappeared around his eyes and in the movement of his hands, and with a glance at Jarrod, he moved deliberately away from the horses before he spoke again.

"I was trying to get away from Strawberry, and I couldn't find my way out no matter which way I turned. I kept ending up back in the middle." He took a deep breath, trying to keep the memory neutral, factual. "Then the crowd started gathering, hunting me. And there was the iron box. I tried to run from it but it kept reappearing in front of me no matter where I turned. And finally it was Uncle Matt who pushed me in and locked me in there."

"And Linceul?"

"In the box. The blackness always brings him back. He would blindfold me for fun. That wasn't different. It was –" Heath was frowning, his eyes moving as though some answer was about to materialize before him in the air.

"What was different?"

"The pounding. The drumming. Linceul kept saying, _you know you want to destroy him, as you did to me. It's your only way out_."

"Destroy who, Heath? What does that mean?"

Heath took another deep breath, nodding to himself. "My Uncle Matt. He's saying I want to destroy my Uncle Matt. I want to kill him, like I killed Linceul. That it's my only way out – the only way I can get free of this place."

"And what do you think, Heath?"

"Do I want to kill him? Absolutely. Wanted to kill them both. I handed their crime to you and ran away, Jarrod, because yes, I wanted to destroy them and leave them out for the vultures. I didn't trust myself then, not at all, and I still don't know even now that I do." He rubbed his face with his palms, then pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead, grimacing as if he had a headache. "That drumming, that black box – it's rage, Jarrod, rage. It's not just for Matt Simmons, no, there's plenty others. But what he did to Rachael, yes, he'd be the one who could shove me in that box and lock me in." He looked up, and Jarrod ached for the struggle he could see in his eyes. "Jarrod, I don't want to be lost in all that anger. But I don't know what to do with it. I keep running away from it – but is it trapping me here now? Is that it? Is it true what Linceul was saying? Giving in to that, is that my only way out?"

"I can't say I know what the way out is for you, Heath. But I know one thing about what Linceul said."

"What's that?"

"The Devil is a liar." Jarrod held Heath's shoulders as he turned to face him. "It is a lie that the darkness is the only answer. You've got a lot to feel angry for, Heath, more than most, and I don't pretend to know how you wrangle that down into something you can live with. I hope that's not a lesson I ever have to learn myself. But I trust you to find a way that is right for you. That box in your dream, that rage, that blackness – you know it feels wrong. You know that's no way out for you. Trust that. Trust yourself."

"The Devil is a liar." Heath mulled that over with a slight smile, skeptically holding his brother's serious gaze. "All that book-learnin' and university education, and you give me 'the devil is a liar'."

"I'm sure I could find a lengthier, less home-spun way to convey the same message, brother, if you think that would be helpful."

Heath shook his head and started to walk back to the cabin, still feigning disappointment. "The Devil is a liar. Boy howdy, all those books in your library goin' to waste. Let's go get some breakfast."

Jarrod raised his eyebrows at Heath's retreating back. "Going to waste…?"

Heath was grinning. "Next thing you know, you're gonna be tellin' me don't squat with your spurs on," he tossed back over his shoulder.

Jarrod chuckled and caught up with him. "No, the next thing I'm gonna be telling you is you better watch being such a smartass."

Heath smiled at him. "Tryin' to be the best smartass I can be." He squeezed his shoulder. "Thanks, Jarrod. You make a lot of sense, home-spun and otherwise."

"You think Nick made some more corn cakes this morning?'

Heath groaned. "Oh, don't remind me. What's next? She's gonna show him how to make –"

Audra popped out onto the back porch. "C'mon you two, hurry up! Nick just made the most amazing bacon and grits!"

"No - she didn't – Hannah? Hannah!"

Jarrod could hear Audra's laughter as she disappeared into the house. He clapped his brother on the back. "C'mon, Heath. It'll be all right. We'll help you get through it."


	37. Chapter 37 - Never Worth So Much

_The mind is its own place, and in itself_

 _Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n._

 _John Milton_

 _Paradise Lost, Lines 253-55_

* * *

"OK, little sister, mount up."

Heath stood at Nox's head, gently stroking her neck, ready to settle the mare if need be, though she was showing no signs of distress. Audra swung into the saddle with a smile of pure joy. Nox was as still and calm as the mountain they stood upon, and Audra leaned forward to throw her arms around the horse's neck.

"Oh, you big, beautiful, girl! I'm so proud of you."

Jarrod smiled up at her. "We're proud of _you_ , honey. Really proud."

Nick came over to stand by Heath, who was adjusting the bit-less bridle they had brought for Nox. He leaned an arm on his shoulder. "Nice work, the both of you. You make a good team." He studied the mare's conformation with interest, as he'd had little hands-on experience with draft horse breeds. "I don't think Nox and I have been properly introduced, now that I think of it," he said to Audra. "We had an argument – which, for the record, I won – but that doesn't really count as an introduction. Particularly with such a royal-looking animal as this."

Heath glanced at him with a bemused smile as he stepped around to check her cinch on the off side. "You had an argument? What are you talking about?"

Audra leaned toward Heath with a sympathetic smile. "You weren't exactly awake at the time. You had fainted, in fact. The unconscious prince-in-distress being rescued by the damsel," she confided with a wink.

Heath, momentarily speechless, looked in vain to his laughing brothers for support. Pleased to see Heath at a loss for a comeback, Audra turned back to Nick with a gracious smile and made the proper introductions. "Nox, this is my brother Nicholas. Nicholas, this is Nox, formerly known as Sombra."

Nick removed his hat. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am." Nox tossed her head and then gave Nick a good nudge with her nose in greeting.

"Oh, I do hope we can find Ilsa and Peter when we get back home," She said wistfully. "Can you imagine how happy they'd all be?"

"I wouldn't get your hopes up too high, Audra," Nick said.

"Ain't no real harm in lifting up hope, girl," Hannah said, as she approached from the cabin, "but plenty to gain. And don't you look beautiful up there. Like a princess."

"Ready to go rescue some more princes, I think."

"Our list of things to do does not include rescuing princes, I'm afraid," Jarrod commented, "but I'll be happy to have your help purchasing some hardware and lumber." He climbed into the driver's seat of the wagon. Jingo was the chosen cart horse for the day, an assignment he accepted with his usual equanimity.

"You all be careful, hear?"

"Yes ma'am," Heath answered, climbing up on Nike.

"I'll get started on that roofing," Nick said. "Shouldn't take long."

"I 'spect not," Hannah said. As the three headed toward the trail, she called out, "Hurry back and don't be late for lunch! Me 'n Nick'll be waiting for you with something tasty!"

Heath looked at the sky and then just shook his head with a smile, as Hannah's laugh followed them down the trail.

* * *

The town of Strawberry seemed to Heath even more ragged and bleak than it had just six months ago, though he had to admit he hadn't been looking too closely on his last visit. He hadn't been looking too closely at anything, then, to be honest; not at the town, nor at Hannah, nor even at his own state of mind.

Last night the thought of coming into Strawberry made him queasy and anxious; those feelings were intensifying as they rode into the outskirts of the half-empty, four-road mining town. He was preoccupied with the vivid nightmare that had waked him that morning. The images moved over everything he saw, coloring and distorting the scene around him like smoked glass. He wished he could just push the memory aside, but the further into the center of town they rode, the jumpier he became; he was seeing people (and dogs) at the edges of his vision, and hearing words in the hiss of the wind between the buildings.

 _It's just a poor, run-down town with poor, hopeless people,_ he reminded himself. _Matt was hopeless, and weak, and mean, and that's all he was. Martha too. They're gone._ He repeated these thoughts to himself a few times as they seemed to help him settle down. He was aware of Jarrod watching him closely. He took a deep breath and gave him what he hoped was a reassuring nod.

He turned his attention instead to Audra, who was in heaven astride Nox.

"Do you see her gait? She's like riding on a cloud! She floats!"

And she truly did seem to float. Her high-stepping, powerful gait was lovely and graceful, and he smiled picturing her drawing a covered wagon across the entire country. It was hard to believe this was the same bereaved, skeletal horse that had arrived to the Barkley Ranch just two months ago, scarred and fearful and combative.

 _That horse kinda sounds like you, Heath,_ he could hear Frank laughing. _Maybe Audra can work some of that mojo on you as well._

Heath smiled to himself, amazed as always at this phenomenon that was his family now. He wondered if it would ever seem routine.

"She's beautiful, honey." He took advantage of the ride to town to observe and assess more carefully the mare's hooves, her balance and alignment, and the movement of her joints. He expected he'd have to do her shoeing himself, and probably do it cold, as he doubted there was even a farrier working in Strawberry now, or a forge up and running that he could use. He was going to have to clean and trim her feet carefully and then hope to find some shoes that would fit, because he wasn't going to be able to make much in the way of adjustments.

The hardware/general store appeared reasonably well-stocked, and contained a counter for food and drink as well. There were even a few customers inside. A quick, reluctant look across the street showed Heath that the hotel was boarded up and closed. Jarrod caught his anxious glance and got another nod from Heath that he was still OK with the situation. They pulled up to the hitching rail in front of the store. Jarrod and Audra went inside with their list, while Heath took Nox's lead and rode to the far side of town where the livery and smithy were located.

This was a part of town that had a few good memories for Heath, though from many years ago. The old men that had let him work the livery or hang around and learn the farrier's trade had moved on or died long ago. He wondered if there was anyone still here he knew – _or anyone here at all_ , he thought, as he dismounted outside what now appeared to be a deserted place of business.

There appeared to be some weather moving in, and the wind had picked up, cold and erratic. Heath decided to bring both horses indoors. The buildings were unlocked, so he walked Nike and Nox inside, unsaddled them both, and gave them each some water from a rusty hand pump in the corner that looked like it hadn't been cleaned or oiled for fifteen years – that is, since Heath had last tended to it as the livery's ten-year-old assistant. There was no fresh feed or hay, and no surprise, no fire in the forge next door. Stepping into the smithy, Heath fished a dollar out of his pocket and then brushed some cobwebs aside to leave it at the desk, though it seemed unlikely anyone would find it. He began to look around the dusty, dim space to see if he could even find the materials he'd need.

He was pleased to find a functional set of hoof working tools, and a barrel full of horseshoes of various sizes, all piled together in no particular order. Figuring there was no point in continuing unless he had the shoes he needed, he proceeded to go through the whole barrel to see if he could find one full set of shoes big enough for Nox's draft horse feet. He had his whole head and upper body inside the barrel, groping along the bottom, almost despairing of finding the fourth, when his hand fell on the last one of the set. Gratified and looking forward to his task, he scrambled back out and stood with the tools rolled in a canvas under his arm and two shoes in each hand.

The distinctive ratchet sound of a Henry lever-action rifle crackled through the dusty air. Heath froze, his heart pounding in his throat, his body reacting even before his mind had fully processed what he had heard. There came the rustling murmur of several more men – Three? Four? – entering the room behind him. A gust of wind whined through the cracks and gaps of the decaying building, and he reminded himself to breathe. The voice he heard sounded vaguely familiar.

"Hold it right there, dog. Don't turn around. Drop those tools, put your hands on top of your head, and back up to the middle of the room where I can see you."

Heath complied, slowly, carefully.

"Kneel, and keep your hands where they are."

Heath did as he was told. He heard another person enter the room. He cleared his throat and tried to swallow, then said, "Look, if you're thinkin' I'm –"

"Quiet, dog. Well, Matt, looks like you were right about someone bein' in here stealing stuff. And it looks like he's a horse thief too."

"Better catch even than that, Mitch," came the ragged rough voice Heath knew so well. "This one's still got a price on his head in several Nevada territories. We get him across the state line, I think we could retire."


	38. Chapter 38 - Strawberry Born-and-Bred

_Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,_

 _Blood and revenge are hammering in my head._

 _William Shakespeare_

 _Titus Andronicus, act 2, sc.3, l.38-_ 9.

 _I may not be thinking clear about much of anything at the moment, but I do know one thing. I ain't goin' back to Nevada._

Heath had the sensation that the whole rotten building was shaking with the tremor that was thrumming through him. Outside, as if in agreement, the wind gusted and shrieked through the gaps in the siding, and intermittently threw angry handfuls of hail against the roof. He heard Nike's questioning whinny next door, and both horses stomped and shifted restlessly.

It suddenly occurred to him that Nox had allowed him to bring her into the barn with no fuss at all. None. He had been thinking about the weather, and had done just what he would have done with any horse at that moment. Nox, for her part, had gone right along with him, calm as you please, just as if she hadn't broken a man's arm once fighting to get back outside. He hadn't tethered either of them, just left them standing by the watering trough.

He allowed that surprising fact to pass through his mind. He'd have to think it through later -

Right now there were men circling around him where he knelt on the smithy floor. Glancing to either side he was faintly glad that there appeared to be only four of them in all, with rifles, no handguns: two men flanking him that he didn't recognize; Mitch, with a shiny new Henry rifle and a rusty sheriff's badge hanging from his coat pocket, coming around into the point position; and Matt, who remained out of sight to his rear. Heath listened as best he could over the rattling of the hail and the creaking of the walls, and he was pretty sure no-one else was behind him.

The presence of Matt Simmons, hovering behind him out of sight, was threatening to make him crazier than he already was. From the moment Heath heard his voice, he had been fighting back that nauseating internal vertigo. He could not afford to lose his hold on himself right now.

With an effort, Heath turned his attention to Mitch Harper, a man about his age, Strawberry born-and-bred. They had grown up in the same town but in different worlds, and Heath had learned early on that he was important to Mitch, _very_ important.

Mitch had a mother and a father who were married. His father was a carpenter who made a decent living, even as the mine gave out. Mitch got to go to school, and church, and the local fair – no one questioned his right to be there, or chased him off with a leather belt or a broomstick in their hand. Still, even with all that, Mitch needed Heath.

He would watch his father swing at the blond kid to chase him away from his workshop, or laugh at Heath running to work at the livery while Mitch and the other children were in the schoolhouse. He would see the preacher glower in stony silence at the bastard in the back of the church, waiting while the whole congregation turned to stare, until finally the boy would get up and flee the service. Mitch would seek out these acts of malice – create them, if needed – and cling to them as proof that he himself belonged and was worthy.

As a grown man, with no real desire to work and make something of himself, Mitch had been feeling the lack of such reassurance and validation for some years. The drama over the summer - the rise and fall of the town bastard, the killings and the condemnation and the manhunt - had been like manna from heaven for him and his cronies, paving the way to his current position as town sheriff. The very recent return of Matt Simmons only solidified Mitch's credibility with the like-minded folks in town. He gazed proudly down upon the man kneeling on the dirt floor before him.

Heath glanced up at him, his expression unreadable. "So, you're a lawman now, Mitch, is that right?"

Mitch sucked his teeth and nodded. "Town needed a leader. Town also needed someone who could read, and besides I had this here new rifle." He chuckled, holding it up and rotating it to admire the shine. "This was a gift from a soldier who always sleeps with his rifle, but unfortunately was too drunk to wake up when I took it from him. The sheriff gig keeps a roof over my head, which has been fine, but now, with _you_ here –-" He smiled widely and looked around at his grinning companions. "I think Simmons is right. I think I'm gonna retire in Nevada. They know how to treat a dog like you over there, that's for certain. We all could see that, y'know, but clearly they didn't finish the job."

Mitch began pacing back and forth, enjoying himself. "We been hearing about you all summer, Thomson - you went running off to be all fancy down in the valley, but they see the truth of you now too, down there, don't they. Can't imagine why they took you in in the first place, and for sure can't see how they'd want you around after your – um – _legal_ _troubles_. So they run you outta Stockton finally? Is that it? Looks like you stole a couple nice horses on your way out. You go running back to that crazy old Negro woman? She at least wouldn't be able to run you off, I figure, right? Where else would you go, anyway. Yeah, she'd be stuck with you. Maybe we should go knock some sense into her head. She could work for us instead!"

Before he could check himself, Heath lost the iron grip he was keeping on his anger and launched himself at Mitch, wanting nothing more than to rip his head from his shoulders.

Relaxed, leaning on the door jamb, Matt Simmons watched with equanimity as the three younger men laid into his sister's brat and beat him back down to the floor. He himself was getting too old and stiff for that kind of exertion. He'd done a fourteen month stretch of a five year sentence in Folsom, and then they let him out for good behavior, and because he was coughing up blood from time to time. Not much of a favor they did him, turning him loose from a place that at least fed and housed him, with winter coming on, and nothing to his name. With nowhere else he could think of to go, he made his way back to Strawberry, thinking he could at least spit on Rachael and Leah's graves before he died.

He didn't count on the welcome he found in Strawberry from this small group of well-wishers. These dissolute young men devoted their energies to three things: complaining about their lack of opportunity and income; arguing over who would pay for their whiskey; and maliciously gloating over the misadventures of Leah Thomson's upstart bastard kid. Matt Simmons had limped unexpectedly back into town a few months after their supply of news entertainment from Nevada had dried up. Mr. Simmons was welcomed by these youth as a prophet, one who had given the dog his due, and right from the beginning.

Surprised but pleased, Matt had accepted their homage, and let it be known that Martha had taken far more credit for Rachael's death than she deserved. "I was happy to let her take the fall," he had explained to them philosophically, as he lit a pipe Mitch had filled for him with fresh tobacco. "She was insane, no reason to live. And it meant I'd have a chance to get back home. Oh, yes, once Leah was dead and the brat rode off to go try to weasel into a decent family, Martha ranted and raved about what we should do, but I was the one who knew that Caulfield woman had to go, and I got it done."

He found himself treated with respect, for the first time in his life. It was intoxicating; still, he couldn't see where this reprieve could lead him - until today. Today he had received another miraculous gift - the mongrel dog himself, the cause of all the trouble, right here in Strawberry all by his lonesome, and with reward money on his head to boot. It was too good to be true.

Smiling pleasantly on the scene before him, Matt lit his pipe and nodded his approval to Mitch, who was looking a little winded. The boy was getting back up on his knees. He always had been a tough one to get to stay down.

Heath coughed and put the back of one hand against his head in an attempt to staunch the bleeding from a split brow and clear his vision. He squinted up at the faces he could see – Matt was still out of sight.

"With an uncle like you, Matt, who needs nightmares," he commented, hoarsely.

He cleared his throat and spat more blood into the dirt floor. His head was spinning and he felt again as if he would vomit, but he was pretty sure this time it was just from being beat on.

Matt didn't answer, but Heath heard him give a short, satisfied grunt. The smell of pipe smoke wafted over, and Heath skidded sickeningly inside.

 _No. No. Stay here. Here. Now. **Stay**._

He straightened himself up with a groan, holding his ribs, hoping the pain would help him anchor himself.

Mitch had stepped aside to set his shiny rifle down on the desk next to the dollar coin Heath had placed there. His two young buddies did the same, wanting to free up their hands. This was the fun part. Mitch returned now, wrapping a bandana around his knuckles, and knocked Heath back down to the floor. Happy, he then kicked him a few more times in the back for good measure, before he took a break to catch his breath and give the other two guys a chance.

"I don't know what kinda – kinda bounty they're offering over there but – but those horses're worth a lotta money – more'n you'd get paid for my head I bet – if – if it's money you're after –"

Matt chuckled at that, and Heath heard him step a little closer. "No reason to choose, mutt. We'll take both." The four men were relaxed now, enjoying themselves, masters of the moment. Heath was no longer a threat, he was entertainment and a financial asset.

Heath groaned, trying to pick himself up again from the ground. The taste of dust and blood in his mouth was sickening him, filling him with rage. Other times, other places, other moments of blood and dirt and fear and anger echoed in and around him, resonating and rising in intensity and flooding his mind. Other faces, other men – and with a sudden shock of pain he remembered Jarrod standing over him where he lay, dazed, beat up, and sucking wind on the floor boards of the stable back at the ranch. Saw Jarrod look concerned, but then watched him nod and walk away, leaving Heath behind with the hands who had jumped him.

 _Not helping. Not going there now, not thinking about that, no._

He squeezed his eyes closed, though that gave him no protection from the painfully vivid detail of the images that flashed through his mind. The tremor was thrumming inside him, reverberating with the rattle of the windows in the wind. Desperately, he grabbed for anything he could focus on to help push away the sound and fury in his head and get his eyes back on where he was. He listened for the wind, the weather, the horses, anything. The sky suddenly tore open and hail began hammering the roof in an explosion of noise. Nike whinnied loudly, several times, and he could hear both horses circling nervously. Heath pushed himself up to stare desperately at the old double doors that connected the two buildings. A tentative idea began to take shape.

Matt followed his gaze, intrigued by the worry he saw in the boy's eyes. _How much **were** they worth, really_? He wondered. He admitted that horseflesh was not something he knew much about – but Heath did, and he seemed much too preoccupied with those animals for someone who was down on the ground and busy getting beaten to death.

The youngsters were continuing to take their turns pounding on the mutt, taking their time, and Heath continued to fight back some, just enough to keep it interesting. Matt considered maybe once they were done here, they'd go drop the kid's body on the Negro lady's doorstep – but no, they'd need to take him along into Nevada to collect their money.

Finally, Heath stopped fighting back and just lay there for a moment, exhausted, his breathing harsh. But as Matt watched, he again tried to get up, looking anxiously toward the livery doors.

"Alright, Mitch, that's enough for now. Let's get a look at those horses he's so worried about."

"You bet." Mitch practically skipped over to the doors, lifting the drop bar and throwing the doors wide.

Face down in the dirt, Heath felt the earth herself echoing in rhythm with the hammering of his heart. Hooves struck the ground and drummed in his bones. The wind and hail shook the building. He lifted his head, took a breath, and called to her.

"Nox – help –"


	39. Chapter 39 - A Passing Squall

_Which way shall I fly  
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?  
Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;  
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep  
Still threatening to devour me opens wide,  
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven._

 _John Milton_

 _"Paradise Lost"_

* * *

 _No man can purchase his virtue too dear, for it is the only thing whose value must ever increase with the price it has cost us. Our integrity is never worth so much as when we have parted with our all to keep it._

 _Ovid_

* * *

"Jarrod, come on, do we have everything? We should get moving before it gets any worse out here." Audra found herself shouting to be heard over the gusting wind. There was a transient burst of freezing rain and hail that made her yelp and duck back onto the covered sidewalk in front of the store. Even the placid Jingo was tossing his head and becoming restive, tethered as he was out in the open.

Audra leaned in to call to her brother, who was settling the bill at the counter. "Do you remember where the livery is from when you were here before? Heath's probably not done yet, we should head over there and get us and Jingo out of this storm 'till it passes."

"Coming." Tucking his wallet back inside his jacket, Jarrod was suddenly caught by a look on the storekeeper's face. "Something wrong?"

"Heath, did she say? Leah's boy? He's with you?"

"Yes," Jarrod answered cautiously. "He's our brother. Why do you ask? Is there a problem?"

"Yes. No – I mean – I don't know. I'm sorry – you must be Mr. Barkley then, right?"

"Yes, and if there's some trouble with my brother, I need to know about it, right now."

Jarrod's sudden, focused concern and intense demeanor flustered the clerk, and for a moment he groped for words. Recovering himself, he said, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be so muddy." He paused to confirm for himself that there were no other ears nearby. "It's just that there's many in this town that wish him harm, and who ain't go nothin' else to keep 'em busy. Idle hands do the Devil's work, my Pa always said, and there's plenty idle, mean hands in this place. If Heath is here, he shouldn't be going' about alone. That's all I mean to say, Mr. Barkley," he touched his hat toward Audra, who was listening to him with alarm, "and Miss Barkley."

Jarrod silently studied the clerk for another beat or two, looking for any sign that he was misleading them or concealing a different agenda. The man felt near pinned to the wall by that blue-eyed stare, and exhaled in relief when the lawyer finally nodded, turned, and hurried outside to his sister.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

No discussion was needed between them. They wasted no time climbing up into the buckboard; Jarrod pushed Jingo to a canter down the main street while Audra checked her rifle.

"There may be no trouble at all," Jarrod said. "But just the same, we'd better all stick together from now on."

Audra just nodded to him, and then ducked her head, holding on to her hat as another gust of cold wind brought with it a deluge of hail and freezing rain. "This is crazy!" she yelled over the noise. "And I just realized, Heath is probably outside with Nox because we've never been able to get her inside without her putting up a huge fight!"

"You're right, I forgot about that. He'd have to work on her outside. He probably hasn't gotten anything done yet." He snapped the reins, and Jingo, who had dropped back to a trot, picked up his pace again. They didn't have far to go. They rounded a corner on the far side of town, and Jarrod pointed ahead to a pair of sagging buildings a few hundred yards off. "There's the livery."

The storm arrived then in full force. They heard a loud _crack_ , and both initially looked up, thinking a tree branch had snapped in the wind. The sound repeated, four shots in rapid succession. Rifle fire. Jarrod yelled to Jingo, and they sped down the road at a gallop.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

The squall and its clamor passed on as quickly as it had boiled up, so quickly, in fact, that by the time Jarrod and Audra jumped from the wagon, weapons in hand, the downpour had stopped and a foggy hush had descended on the forest road. Sporadic gusts of air prodded the pines and old buildings to squeak and whisper, quickly settling back into silence. The two siblings crouched behind the buckboard and listened intently for any indication of what was happening inside.

"I can't see anything through those windows," Jarrod said in frustration. "Where's Nox? Shouldn't she be outside?" Finally he yelled for Heath, but it was Nike who answered. "Dammit," he said. "Audra, listen. I'm going to get up to the windows and look inside. You cover me. You understand what I mean?" She nodded, and took a position to cover the front of the building.

"I'm ready."

Jarrod ran, keeping low, and reached a spot where he could look inside the livery. Seeing no-one there, he moved to the front of the smithy, and stole a glance in one of the filthy, cracked windows. What he saw confused him, so he popped up to the window pane again and took a longer look. The only person he could see was Heath, and he was leaning against a big central support beam in the middle of the smithy floor with a rifle in his hand, his face covered with blood. His attention was directed intently at something in Jarrod's direction, but he couldn't see what it was. He did glance up to see Jarrod in the window. He nodded faintly and waved him in.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

 _"Nox – help –"_

It was a desperate plan based entirely on instinct and hope. If Nox trusted him enough to walk into a building with him, then she trusted him to lead her as part of her herd, her family, and he hoped that meant that she'd throw in her considerable muscle to protect him when Mitch opened those doors.

 _And boy howdy, did she ever_.

He had been worried about the guns. He didn't want any of them taking a shot at the horses. Digger's death was terrible, but they'd been ambushed and trapped. Heath would have to be in extremis to decide to send his horse deliberately into the line of fire. But these boys here had no handguns, that was good, and they'd left their rifles behind them on the smithy desk.

He didn't know what Nox would do when Mitch threw open the doors. He expected there'd be mayhem, and because he was expecting mayhem, whatever it was, he reckoned he'd be better able to take advantage of it than these four, even beaten down as he was.

Matt and the two young guys converged on the double doors as Mitch lifted the drop bar, curious to see the animals. The doors opened, Heath called out, and Nox exploded into the smithy like the lead horse of the Apocalypse. She was a blur, and that much more intimidating in her presence and power because of the enclosed space.

Mitch screamed, but his first cry was cut short by a blow to his chest that knocked him flat on his back. He screamed again when she crushed his left leg; this trailed off into quiet sobbing as Nox wheeled and lunged at the other three men who were scrambling in a retreat to the front wall of the smithy.

In the moment that Nox struck her first blow, Heath had rolled and crawled as quickly as he could to the dusty, cob-web-covered desk, intending to take control of the firearms in the room. This he did, keeping the Henry in his right hand, and making his way back to the center of the room where he could keep the men under gunpoint.

Mitch hadn't moved from where he had been stomped on. Both of the two younger men had tried to get past Nox from where they had been herded against the wall, and both had paid for their efforts with a few broken bones and soiled pants. Matt, self-preserving old lizard that he was, saw the best strategy for the moment was to hold still.

Even in the midst of the mayhem, watching her dodge and weave and lunge, Heath couldn't help but notice Nox seemed to have some natural talent as a cutting horse – or maybe she was picking up a few tricks from Nike. She stood now beside him, steaming and vigilant.

The storm reached a crescendo; the building groaned and shuddered under the lashing of the wind. Heath had struggled painfully up to his knees, wincing with each breath he took, and had positioned himself leaning against the big wooden support beam so he could steady the hand that held the rifle and not fall down. He raised his left hand and shakily wiped some of the blood and dirt from his eyes, then blinked a few times until the men by the wall came into better focus. Matt was staring stonily at him. Heath could see the hatred in his eyes, but behind that, profound and encompassing, he saw emptiness.

Heath methodically checked that the 15-round magazine of the Henry was fully loaded, with one bullet in the chamber. Nox looked at him, and he lifted the weapon for her to see, hoping she'd understand he was about to make a lot of unpleasant noise. Matt's eyes widened slightly. He looked as though he might speak, but before he could draw breath, Heath settled the polished stock against his right shoulder, aimed the rifle at Matt's head, and pulled the trigger.


	40. Chapter 40 - Balance

_A great anguish may do the work of years, and we may come out from that baptism of fire with a soul full of new awe and new pity._

 _George Eliot_

 _"Adam Bede"_

* * *

 _Every man should view himself as equally balanced: half good and half evil. Likewise, he should see the entire world as half good half evil... So that with a single good deed he will tip the scales for himself, and for the entire world, to the side of good._

 _Moshe Ben Maimon (Maimonides), rabbi and physician (1134-1204)_

* * *

 _Jarrod ran, keeping low, and reached a spot where he could look inside the livery. Seeing no-one there, he moved to the front of the smithy, and stole a glance in one of the filthy, cracked windows. What he saw confused him, so he popped up to the window pane again and took a longer look. The only person he could see was Heath, and he was leaning against a big central support beam in the middle of the smithy floor with a rifle in his hand, his face covered with blood. His attention was directed intently at something in Jarrod's direction, but he couldn't see what it was. He did glance up to see Jarrod in the window. He nodded faintly and waved him in._

Relieved, but nowhere near reassured, Jarrod beckoned to Audra to join him as he hurried to enter the building through the livery door. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry as dust, but he tried to sound steady for his sister's sake.

"He's all right, I saw him, but he's injured -"

"What happened?" Audra asked breathlessly as she caught up to him. He didn't fool her – she could see the worry in his eyes.

"I don't know, honey - he saw me in the window, though - he's alive and awake, but he's pretty bloody." His voice was strained with fear. Nike was still standing in the livery. She was fidgety and restless, and she whinnied anxiously at them as they rushed past.

Jarrod could hear some sluggish movement and moans of pain coming from the smithy. He and Audra came to the double doors and stopped in shock, trying to take in the scene before them.

The giant form of Nox dominated the room, looming as she did in a threatening stance over three weeping, terrified, injured men, each of whom was begging for mercy with varying levels of coherence.

Jarrod gave those three only a cursory examination; it was Heath who needed his attention now, and urgently.

"Audra, honey, here's what I need you to do," he said softly, not taking his eyes off of Heath. "Bring Nox back into the livery. Then, quick as you can, I need you to get these three and shut 'em up in that stall over there."

Audra stepped up next to him, looking back and forth between Jarrod's worried face, and Heath, who was partially hidden behind the post against which he was leaning.

"Jarrod...?"

"Do you think you can do that, honey? Keep your rifle ready. That one there against the wall looks fit enough to drag his two friends. Get 'em out of here, and then come back to me."

She swallowed, and resisted the urge to cry. "Okay, Pappy." She hesitated for one more moment, looking over at Heath again, then steeled herself and turned to her task. "Be right back."

Jarrod now turned his eyes on the man propped motionless against the far wall of the smithy. _Simmons_. Jarrod understood that man's guilt far better now than he did a year and a half ago, when he was little more in the attorney's mind than an unpleasant legal matter to be handled. _What the hell is **he** doing here? Now? And what terrible thing has happened here today? _

As he heard Audra set about clearing the room behind him, Jarrod put those questions aside and approached Heath carefully, coming around to the other side of the post to kneel at his brother's side.

"Heath...?"

"Jarrod -" Heath responded, his rough voice no louder than a whisper. He didn't turn to his brother, but kept his eyes fixed on Matt Simmons. Heath's face was bruised, and he had a cut over his left eye that was still bleeding. He seemed to flinch slightly with every breath or movement. He tried to bring a hand up again to wipe the blood from his eye, but this made him sway, and instead he grabbed the post to steady himself with a grunt of pain at the movement.

"Heath, look at me. I want to get you out of here."

Heath just shook his head, distantly. "I got twelve rounds left -" he murmured, and brought the rifle back up to his shoulder. The weapon was shaky at first, but Jarrod saw him narrow his eyes down the barrel, and it steadied - somewhat -

He had tears on his face. Jarrod was pretty sure Heath didn't even know he was crying.

"Heath, you don't need to do this. Let me take you home. Please."

Heath blinked to try and clear his sight and took a ragged breath - and fired. Jarrod jumped.

"Eleven, now -" He ratcheted the lever with some difficulty and tried to bring it up again, but he didn't have the strength. Tears fell on his hands as he looked down at the weapon he was holding. "Eleven more. It wouldn't be - won't be enough. It'll never be enough -" He sobbed once, as he looked back up at Matt. "Might as well stop at five."

"Heath, look at me."

After a long moment, Heath tore his eyes away from the man against the wall and looked up at his brother. "Jarrod -"

"I'm here. Wanna give me that rifle?"

"I can't leave it like this. It's all out of balance."

"Out of balance?"

Heath nodded. He took a few breaths to steady himself, and then set his eye again on Matt and brought the rifle up.

"I'm seein' at least three of him over there," he spoke as if to himself. "Reckon I'll aim at the one in the middle."

"Heath. Heath, don't -" Jarrod didn't reach for him, afraid to upset his balance, hoping his voice could bring Heath back.

Heath wasn't listening. Gritting his teeth against the pain it was causing him to stay upright, he looked down the shaking barrel. He was weeping, still, silently. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them, blinking. "That's a little better," he said, breathing in - and pulled the trigger.

A shriek of pain came from the man against the wall.

"Make him stop, Barkley, please, for pity's sake make him stop..."

"Shut up, Simmons," Jarrod barked, not even looking at him. "Heath? Listen, I need to see where you're hurt. C'mon. What do you think?"

"I think – - I think I've just about had it with this town." He was still staring at Matt, his face sad, but calm.

"I don't blame you, brother. We want you to come home."

"My aim was a little messed up. But I feel better now that I got both his ears –"

Audra appeared now beside Jarrod. Heath smiled at her. "That horse of yours is somethin' else, darlin'." She nodded, smiling back at him, tears in her eyes. "Didn't get too far with the shoein', though. You bring those shoes and tools I dropped over there with us, honey, and I'm gonna teach you to do it – 'cause –" He winced as he tried to straighten up a little. "- 'cause I'm too sore just now to be picking up those big black feet."

"You bet, Heath," she said eagerly, standing. "I'll go get them –"

"And I want my dollar back that I left on the desk, too."

Jarrod was looking over at Matt, now, sitting in soiled trousers, frozen, pale and terrified. He was bleeding from both ears – or from where his ears had been. Six bullet holes were arranged in a tight semicircle around his head, letting in beams of sunshine that sparkled and danced and moved with floating dust. It was weirdly beautiful, Jarrod thought.

"Definitely looks more balanced now, Heath, I believe you were right." He placed a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder. "What do you want to do with him?"

Heath opened his hands and let the weapon slide to the ground. He took as deep a breath as he could.

"He's dying, Jarrod. Just let him die. I'm ready to go home."


	41. Ch 41 - The Fall of Sennacherib

_But I know thy abode, and thy going out, and thy coming in, and thy rage against Me._

 _Because_ _of thy anger towards Me, and thy noise -- it came up into Mine ears, I have put My hook in thy nose, and My bit in thy mouth, and I have caused thee to turn back in the way in which thou camest._

 _Isaiah_ _37:29_

"It's alright. I'll be – I'll be alright, Jarrod, I think, once I get m- –" Heath's reassurance was cut off by a pain in his back that caught him by surprise. He grabbed the post again for support, holding his breath and waiting out the spasm before he resumed his careful transition to a standing position. Audra and Jarrod hovered close beside him and watched skeptically. He straightened slowly, breathing shallowly and sweating despite the chill in the air. All three waited expectantly for a few seconds, then Heath let go of the post. "- once I get moving," he finished, though he didn't sound entirely convinced himself.

"Let's get you over to the livery. You can sit there for a minute and Audra can bring the wagon inside."

Heath looked over to those double doors. Jarrod could almost see him taking inventory, measuring the distance to be crossed against the reports coming in from various battered parts of his body. Jarrod touched his arm. "C'mon. We'll walk you over. A nice easy stroll."

It wasn't exactly easy, but with Audra on one side and Jarrod on the other, they got Heath out of the smithy and sitting on an old bench where he could catch his breath. As he did so, Heath cast his eye over the two horses. Satisfied that they were well, he then looked questioning up at his brother. Jarrod did his best to keep his expression neutral, but both Audra and Heath could see, now that the immediate crisis had passed, he was near boiling over with anger.

Jarrod, in turn, realized he was not fooling either of them with his show of calm. He looked at them both, his two youngest siblings, and took a deep breath, feeling the responsibility for them that he carried on his shoulders, and aware that he was even now shifting and testing that weight, seeking the proper balance for what would come next.

Heath knew Jarrod was going to do _something_ with those men in the smithy. He was worried what that might be. He also knew that whatever happened next, it was in his brother's hands, because he, Heath, was right now pretty much down for the count. Between old, new, and renewed injuries, he felt like he had been run over by a mule train, and his mind besides was completely awash with everything that had just happened. _No wheels on the ground and everything scattered all over, that's me,_ he thought, resigned _. I'm gonna have to trust you, brother._ Still, he worried, as he met Jarrod's eyes. _He's dying, Jarrod. They're all dying, some quicker than others. Just let 'em die --_

Heath's message reached him loud and clear. Jarrod had just watched his brother fight his way through a decision that he had difficulty imagining himself - or anyone - navigating to this endpoint. To have the opportunity to destroy the man who had done one such grievous injury; to be able to see that no number of bullets would heal the wound inflicted upon the world and upon those who mourned; to choose not to medicate one's grieving self with violence: this all came from strength, but it came at a very, very high cost. Jarrod intended to honor his brother's choice, no matter how much he'd like to go back into the smithy and put a bullet, or several, into each of those men. He met Heath's exhausted gaze and nodded, wanting somehow to communicate all of this in a look.

"I've got a few things to take care of with those four in there."

"What are you going to do, Jarrod?" Audra's own anger was building up a healthy head of steam as well.

"I'm going to explain their current situation to them in simple, understandable terms, and let them know what the consequences will be of the choices available to them."

A moment passed, and then Heath seemed to let go some of his tense posture, and dropped his searching gaze from Jarrod's face. "I hope -" Heath murmured, now leaning against Audra and closing his eyes, "- I hope you're gonna speak a bit more plainly to Mitch and those idiot youngsters in there. Big words will confuse them." He glanced briefly up at Jarrod with a hint of a grin, then closed his eyes again. "This is where that homespun language of yours might come in handy."

Amused and exasperated, even in the midst of the rage he was feeling, Jarrod shared a smile with Audra. He shook his head with a laugh and turned his mind back to the task at hand. "Oh, I'll make sure they each understand me _perfectly_ ," Jarrod said quietly. "You can be certain of that." To Audra's eyes he looked merciless, as angry as she'd ever seen him, and she was glad for it. He stood. "Shouldn't take long."

Reentering the smithy, Jarrod first glanced quickly in the stall where Audra had contained Mitch and his two cronies. They had remained docile and miserable; Mitch, with a crippling crush injury to his left thigh that had probably fragmented his femur, was looking not well at all. Moving on, Jarrod scooped up Mitch's dirty bandana from the floor and tore it in half. He stopped in front of the bleeding Matt Simmons, who still hadn't budged from where he had retreated from the crazy black horse and the crazy bastard kid with the rifle. Jarrod tossed the two pieces of cloth into Simmons' lap.

"Here. Use those for your ears. Get up."

Matt couldn't manage it. Holding both ears, he struggled to his knees, but could get no further. Wrinkling his nose at the smell, Jarrod stepped over and roughly grabbed the back of his jacket, pulled the older man up, and shoved him in the direction of the stall, not caring whether he could walk or not. Matt managed to stay on his feet, though barely. Arriving to the stall door, he sank again to the ground, pressing the dirty fabric to either side of his head. Not one of the four men looked at each other.

Jarrod was aware the nausea he was feeling did not come from the redolent smell that came from this group of primitive, thoughtless, violent men. What he was feeling was grief, flowing up out of his deepening awareness of what had been lost, an understanding that had been steadily growing on this voyage into the mountains. He looked at Matt Simmons, but what he saw in his mind was a rough kitchen table in a small cabin. The scene was so vivid he stopped in his tracks to take in every detail.

 _It was nighttime, and two screech owls hooted their duet in the dark. At the table sat a skinny boy of about 10 with shaggy blond hair, a stub of a pencil in his hand, bent over a wrinkled and stained piece of paper that Jarrod suspected had been fished out someone's trash bin. Sitting beside him was a slim woman with long, wavy dark hair, loosely twisted over one shoulder. Her face was angular and serious, made beautiful by her attentive eyes and the intelligence of her expression. She held a worn copy of "Robinson Crusoe", and on the table was a blue-green leather bound schoolbook on grammar and proper English, one of the set Jarrod had seen on the bookshelf in the cabin._

 _"Finished," the boy announced._

 _"Are you sure?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _"Have you read it through and checked all your punctuation?"_

 _"Yes, yes, yes, it's done, I'm **sure**."_

 _"Read it to me," Rachael affectionately commanded._

 _The boy proceeded to read the paragraph he had written to summarize what had taken place in the chapter they had just read. There was a strong opening, but he soon began to hesitate and then frankly to improvise as he came to a run of sentences that were a grammatical and logical mess. He plunged on bravely, glancing at Rachael to see how far out she'd let him run with this before she roped and hogtied him. Finally, lost in his composition jungle, he trailed off and looked aside at her anxiously._

 _She_ _was trying to remain stern, but Leah had stopped in the kitchen to listen, and they were both struggling not to laugh. Rachael bit her lip, then said, "OK, Heath, that was a mess. It is getting late, however, and I know you've been working all day. So, all you must do right now is take that mess and make sure the spelling and punctuation are correct. Tomorrow we can try to figure out what it was you were trying to say." She bit her lip again and Leah hurried out of the room, grinning. "Once you finish that, you can run around outside for just a few minutes, then it's time to wash up and get into bed."_

 _Heath was hugely relieved. He leaned over with a brilliant smile and hugged her, and kissed her cheek, and then bent once more over his paper. She sat back and watched him work, her eyes so full of love and worry Jarrod almost felt his heart would break._

Didshe know, Jarrod wondered, how little time they would have to mother this boy before he was off on his own into the world? Before the war would take him away at the age of 13? Did these two women feel how quickly that future would come upon them, so they had to pour all their love and teaching and warnings and scolding and laughter into so brief a time?

Jarrod wished with all his heart that he could have known Leah and Rachael. He looked down at the man who could beat a young child with his fists, the man who had ripped such a gaping hole in the world in the service of his own stupid, thoughtless greed. Jarrod squatted down and pulled Matt Simmons to face him, and looked him in the eye, hoping he would see the wrath of God in Jarrod's face.

"Listen to my words, Simmons, and you three listen up as well. I'm leaving here with my brother and my sister. I want you all to understand a few things." He reached over and ripped the rusty sheriff star off of Mitch's jacket. "I'll be sending some real lawmen up here after all of you, and I intend to press charges of conspiracy to commit murder. Mitch, I doubt you're going to be capable of running away, so you're stuck. You two boys, you can try to run, but understand this: if any of you ever even sniff in the direction of any member - or interest - of my family ever again, I will kill you. We have a lot of interests in this state, so if you plan to run, you better make it far, far away."

He turned back to Matt. Jarrod pulled out his sidearm, pulled back the hammer, and placed the barrel just below Simmons' left eye, holding it there firmly as he spoke. Matt whimpered faintly. Mitch and the two other men now watched, wide-eyed.

"Simmons, I'm going to have the law coming especially after you. I'd dearly love to just put a bullet in you myself, but I will respect my brother's wishes and try to follow his civilized example. You also can try to run, but you don't seem to have a penny to your name, nor any friends or family; add to this the fact that you now bear a rather distinctive mark of Cain on either side of your head. It will be tough for you to disappear, I think. You are on parole, subject to immediate re-incarceration. The marshals will be very pleased to take you back where you belong. Back to jail might be the easiest route for you, Matt. At least there you could live out your own personal Hell with a roof over your head."


	42. Chapter 42 - Enough for Thee

_The wood is wiser far than thou;  
_ _The wood and wave each other know  
_ _Come, lay thee in my soothing shade,  
_ _And heal the hurts which sin has made.  
_

 _Enough for thee the primal mind  
_ _That flows in streams that breathes in wind:  
_ _Leave all thy pedant lore apart;  
_ _God hid the whole world in thy heart._

 _The rain comes when the wind calls;  
_ _The river knows the way to the sea;  
_ _Without a pilot it runs and falls,  
_ _Blessing all lands with its charity_

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882)  
_ _"Woodnotes"_

* * *

"I used to love to come work here," Heath said, looking around the decaying livery building. Audra thought he sounded far off, as though he were sleepwalking, or a ghost just passing through his old haunt. That image made her shiver, and she stood, needing to move and do something. He looked up at her, his expression affectionate and utterly exhausted.

"Your face is filthy, and you're still bleeding," she pronounced, and she moved off to get a bucket of clean water, untying the scarf from her neck as she went. He watched her go with a sense of wonder and unreality. He felt as if he were underwater, submerged in some strange fantastic world, one in which strong, beautiful sisters can suddenly appear and fly above the water's surface, illuminating these dark, rotting scenes of his youth. She floated back to him, gently tipping his head back and washing the blood and dirt from his face. He smiled at her and did his best not to wince as she rinsed grit and straw and other debris from the deep laceration above his eye.

* * *

The trip back through town began with debate and negotiation. Heath was overruled on his intent to get back up on Nike, but flatly refused to ride in the back of the wagon, so he climbed painfully up into the driver's seat to sit by Jarrod, while Audra came alongside riding Nox and leading Nike. They rolled up the main street, and Jarrod pulled up in front of the general store.

"I'm going to see if he can sell me a chunk of ice, especially for that lump on your head," he said. He also wanted to thank the clerk for the warning he had given them earlier.

Heath remained in his seat, bent over in an attempt to ease some of the discomfort in his body and holding Audra's folded scarf to his eye. Audra dismounted at the rail to remove Nike's saddle and put it in the back of the wagon, then disappeared behind Nox as she adjusted her off side stirrup. Heath heard raucous laughter as two men exited the saloon next door.

"Oh, now, would you look at this," one said. "What are you doin' here, Thomson? No one told us you were comin' to town. We would have been here to welcome you!"

"Looks to me like someone got to welcome him first," said the other.

They began to approach the wagon. Heath watched them come, as he wasn't able to do much else. He hoped Audra would stay out of sight. He was regretting now his lack of a sidearm and he knew he'd never make it to his rifle in the back of the wagon in time. He glanced up at the store, but saw no sign of Jarrod.

"You've been famous around here all summer, boy. Why don't that family jes' keep you locked up somewhere out of sight, what with all the trouble you been causin' them?"

Heath sighed. He'd had just about enough of this tired refrain, in no small part because it was an unwelcome and uncomfortable question he still asked himself from time to time. He had not really realized, until that first trip into Stockton with Marshal Smith, the extent to which his "legal troubles" had crossed the state line and held center stage in the local news and gossip. Hadn't noticed, to be honest, because he'd been too preoccupied with just getting himself through each day, but he sure was getting a catch-up course now.

The two men were still coming on, drunk and mean, and happy to have found such an appealing target. Heath carefully straightened up, resigned to something painful and unpleasant in his immediate future.

"I heard someone say they saw that lawyer Barkley in town. He come up here after you?"

"Maybe the lawyer beat him up. That would make sense. Get down here, boy. We'll finish what the Barkleys started."

 _Get down? Not sure I can even do that without help right now._ Heath glanced at the store again – no Jarrod. He looked back down at the two drunks, and then, unaccountably, he smiled. This infuriated them.

"I said, get down here, you mongrel piece of trash. I'm gonna wipe that grin off your face right now."

The loud report of a rifle fired into the air right behind them made both men duck. There was the sound of the next round levered smartly into the chamber. And then Audra said, "Get the hell away from him. Now."

They turned, carefully, though still not deterred when they saw such a young, pretty girl holding the weapon. "Oh, now, miss, you shouldn't point a gun unless you're ready to use it –" The man screamed as Audra fired again, this time putting a hole in his boot, and taking a few toes along with it.

She chambered another round and shouldered the weapon, aiming now at much more vital body parts. She was on fire. "Oh, I'm ready. I'm ready, willing, and able. I have **_had_** it with this town, I have had it with horrible people attacking my brother, and I **_really_** feel like taking it all out on you two. So unless you want me to keep shooting, you'd both best be running away. Now. Fast."

Hunched over and bracing himself against the seat of the wagon, Heath let out the breath he had been holding with a laugh. He watched the two terrified drunks hurry away, one much more quickly than the other, and clearly with no thought to assisting his wounded friend. Jarrod appeared on the sidewalk, on full alert, a packet of ice in one hand and his gun in the other. Heath and Audra looked at each other for a long moment, smiling.

"Boy howdy, sis, and I thought I adored you _before_."

* * *

Jingo seemed more than eager to get them back to Hannah's house. He was smart enough to know when trouble was afoot, and he clipped along quickly as though pulling the buckboard was his regular job. Once they were safely out of town, Audra had spurred Nox ahead to let Hannah and Nick know what had occurred that morning. Jarrod was driving, one arm around Heath to steady him against the jolting of the wagon. They both watched her ride out of sight with bemused smiles, admiring the little sister who had just chased off those two low-lifes like she was a seasoned town sheriff.

As they crested the rising trail that emerged by the cabin, they could see Audra talking with Hannah and Nick out in the yard. Nick broke into a run to meet them as they pulled up in front.

"Oh boy, I'm gonna get an earful now," Heath commented to the floorboards, bent as he was over his knees and holding a chunk of ice to his head. He had been curled over his sore ribs and grunting in pain with each rut in the road, leaning more heavily on Jarrod as they neared the house and the rough trail had become more punishing. Finally, blessedly, they came to a halt, and he heard Nick rush around to his side of the driver's box. Bracing himself for what he hoped would be only a verbal dressing-down, Heath began the uncomfortable process of sitting up. He hadn't yet figured out how he was going to climb down from the wagon. He was vaguely aware of his brothers' dialogue passing over his head, focused as he was on getting his feet onto the running board. It took him by surprise, therefore, when two sets of hands laid hold of him as he started to step down. He startled, his body out of reflex fighting them off until his mind caught up a second or two later and told him to settle down. Embarrassed and annoyed with himself, he mumbled a thank you and an apology once he got his boots on the ground, and waited for Nick's tirade.

He was surprised again when Nick, instead of hollering at him, just pulled him into a long wordless hug. Heath looked over Nick's shoulder to look questioning at Jarrod, who merely shrugged and smiled. Slowly, Heath let himself relax.

Nick pulled back to look him over more carefully. Heath met his gaze, still wary and worried. The drunkard's words, ill-informed and bigoted as they were, still had gotten under his skin. It didn't take much for him to start feeling like he was more trouble than this family deserved, and he wouldn't fault Nick for being fed up with the seemingly unending malignity that followed him.

"Thank God you're OK," he breathed, finally. Heath realized that Nick was still in shock at what had taken place. "Matt Simmons. My _God_ , Heath. I'm so sorry." Nick pulled him back into a hug, and Heath closed his eyes, suddenly fighting back tears. "I don't know how you didn't kill him right then and there. I'm so glad you didn't, but I can't say I'd have the strength to do the same in your place. Can't say I wouldn't have just killed him myself even if I'd been in Jarrod shoes. I'm so sorry you had to deal with that."

In the silence that followed, Heath could hear the voice of the river as it tumbled and flowed down to the valley, the sound echoing through the dark pine forest. A breeze moved through the trees and brushed over his skin. A thought came unbidden. _Just let it be. It is what it is. Just let it be._ Mysterious as the words were, it gave him some sense of calm.

Still, he worried for everything they'd been through with him. "I'm sorry, Nick," he said, gruffly. "I'm sorry to put y'all through this. It's not your history or your trouble to have to deal with."

Nick laughed and ducked down to look Heath in the eye. "It is now, kid. However, I think we're all in agreement that we are tired of this town and ready to head home, am I right?" There were nods all around. "What **_is_** your problem now, Heath, is that Hannah's getting ready to sew up that pretty face of yours."


	43. Ch 43 - Voices Singing Home

_A huntsman bold is Master Death_ / _And_ _reckless doth he ride_ / _And_ _terror's hounds with bleeding fangs_ / _Go baying at his side;_

 _The hunt is up, the horn is loud_ / _By plain and covert side_ / _And_ _we must run alone, alone_ / _When_ _Death abroad doth ride._

 _But_ _idle 'tis to crouch in fear_ / _Since death will find you out_ / _Then up and hold your head erect_ / _And pace the wood about_ / _And swim the stream, and leap the wall_ / _And race the starry mead,_

 _Nor_ _feel the bright teeth in your flank_ / _Till they be there indeed._

 _For_ _in the secret hearts of men_ / _Are peace and joy at one_ / _There_ _is a pleasant land where stalks_ / _No darkness in the sun_ / _And_ _through the arches of the wood_ / _Do break like silver foam_ / _Young_ _laughter, and the noise of flutes_

 _And_ _voices singing home._

 _Sylvia_ _Lynd_

 _"Hunting Song"_

~~~~~~~~~~

Dawn was just breaking when Hannah stepped out the back door and headed across the garden, her wool wrap around her shoulders. She knew where she would find her boy, even if she didn't have the clear tracks to follow in the frost that coated the ground.

As she got closer, she heard an unfamiliar sound - a hiss, then a thunk. It repeated several times before she could see him through the trees and understand the source of the noise. Heath was kneeling near the gravesite, drawing his longbow and methodically placing his 12 arrows in the trunk of a pine tree about 80 paces off. He was clearly in pain as he drew back the bowstring, and to Hannah he appeared phantom-like, wrapped as he was in the vapor of his breath and the mist that rose from the earth into the frosty air. She could see the intensity of his concentration on his target, despite - or perhaps because of - the pain the exertion caused. His aim was true; he released one arrow after another to create a precise spiral, centered tightly around the first arrow embedded in the middle of the tree trunk.

Hannah came to stand by him.

"That's a pretty design you drew way over there, Heath," she said, impressed. "I hope I get a chance to meet that wild child who got you shooting arrows like this."

He smiled at her. "I hope you do too. I have a feeling you'd love each other."

She looked over at the graves. "You come up to say goodbye?"

"Yeah."

"Heath, I been thinkin'... I don't have no reason to stay up here, not any more. You're all the family I have in this world, that I know of, anyway."

He watched her face carefully, a small hope rising in his heart.

"So I think it's time I leave this place. That is, long as you don't think it'll be too hard on you to have me around." He started to protest, but she interrupted him. "I ain't gonna spoil you like your Mama did, you understand me? So you better be sure before you say yes."

"Yes. _**Yes**_. I'm sure, Hannah, yes."

They smiled at each other for a long moment, then she turned to look at the two headstones. She knelt down out of daily habit to pull a few weeds. She lay her hand gently on the soil.

"Ain't nothing of these girls here now but what they've already given back to the forest," she said. "Seems we should leave their dust to the earth, and take the memory of 'em with us."

He nodded, seeing what she was suggesting.

"Why don't you have those strong brothers of yours put these two headstones in the wagon. You can find a place for them at home where your children can see them."

In the end that is what they did. Hannah offered the cabin - and the flock of chickens - to the schoolteacher Mary, whose son Josiah was newly married and needed his own place. Jarrod offered to arrange the transfer and draw up the papers as soon as they got home. All of the personal items in the home, when packed, filled only a corner of the buckboard, and Nick couldn't help but visualize how loaded this same wagon would be just for a family vacation up at the lodge. Audra helped Heath wrap up the schoolbooks and the chess set.

"Don't you go hiding these," she ordered. "I still want to look through and see if there are any more or your artistic or compositional treasures in here."

Heath got the pump back in working order for the new tenants. Hannah came out to join him, after having checked through the cabin one more time. They both gazed silently over the garden and the familiar woods, lost in memories. Nick's raucous laugh came to them from up by the trail, where he and Jarrod and Audra were tying in the last of the bags and boxes. Audra was teasing him about something.

"Hannah?" Heath asked, hesitant. "What is it about Nick? Why him?"

He asked with no rancor or true jealousy, though he seemed embarrassed to let on that he had been wondering about it. She answered him seriously, but with a twinkle in her eye, as one might with a small child.

"I think you know, baby. It was something _he_ needed. Audra and Jarrod, they can understand by seeing, talking, thinking. Nick, he understands by doing. So that's what I had him do." She closed her eyes, thinking about it. "He jes' seemed so lost. Like he shut you out so hard for so long he didn't know how to catch back up again. And he really, really wanted to catch up."

Heath chuckled. "I think you're spot on about that."

"And," she added, grinning up at him, "there is a talent there. You can't deny it, now can you?"

"No," he admitted reluctantly. "No, I can't deny that." He tried his best to look disappointed, but watching Nick over there laughing with his - their - brother and sister, he couldn't help but smile.

Jarrod turned to call to them.

"Ready to ride out?" Nox was harnessed and waiting for her cue to start them on their way. Audra planned to drive as she did on the way up; Heath had decided riding would be less painful than the wagon, and after the trip yesterday, Jarrod was inclined to agree with him. Hannah climbed up next to Audra.

She beamed at the four young people around her and breathed in the crisp November air. "We best get a move on, children, just a few days until Thanksgiving."

Audra gasped. "That's right, Heath, Rivka is coming - when? Two days?"

He smiled, and it warmed Audra's heart to see it - she hadn't seen him smile like that in so long, it seemed.

"Three days. She's coming in on the morning train Wednesday."

"I wonder what Mother and Marshal Smith have been up to since we've been gone?" Audra suddenly said, a hint of worry in her voice.

The three brothers looked amused at each other and decided judiciously not to speculate.

"We'll send a wire ahead to let then know all is well when we reach Vallecito," Jarrod suggested.

"Marshal Smith - do you think he could help me look for Nox's family?" Audra wondered out loud.

"Wouldn't that be a blessing," Hannah said. "Now, Audra, Jarrod, what shall we sing? A traveling song? I think we need a goin' home song."

 _I looked over Jordan, what'd I see?_ _Comin' for to carry me home_

 _A band of angels comin' after me_

 _Comin' for to carry me home_

 _Swing low, sweet chariot -_

Heath pulled his hat down over his eyes and called his encouragement as they moved out into the trail and Hannah shepherded his siblings into something approaching rhythm and harmony. Grinning, he jumped in to help Jarrod on the bass line for a verse or two.

 _A band of angels comin' after me, yes,_ Heath thought. _They_ _sure do look that way to me. Comin' for to carry me home._


	44. Chapter 44 - The Quiet of the Sky

_And again I hear_  
 _These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs_  
 _With a soft inland murmur.-Once again_  
 _Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,_  
 _That on a wild secluded scene impress_  
 _Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect_  
 _The landscape with the quiet of the sky._

 _Nor less, I trust,  
To them I may have owed another gift,  
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,  
In which the burthen of the mystery,  
In which the heavy and the weary weight  
Of all this unintelligible world,  
Is lightened:-_  
 _  
While with an eye made quiet by the power  
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,  
We see into the life of things._

 _For I have learned_  
 _To look on nature, not as in the hour_  
 _Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes_  
 _The still, sad music of humanity -_

 _Well pleased to recognise_  
 _In nature and the language of the sense,_  
 _The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,_  
 _The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul_  
 _Of all my moral being._

 _William Wordsworth (1798)_

* * *

They did not have far to travel before they came upon the site of Jasper's camp and his assault upon the young couple. Heath was pretty sure he was familiar with the spot from Hannah's report. They stopped at a place he identified along the trail, and then followed him on foot a short way into the forest. There was a flat area, well-hidden from the trail by a ridge of granite, and easily broad enough for a sizable camp. Much of what the posse from Sonora had discovered there remained for them to see.

They didn't stay long; it was a deeply disturbing sight. There was the scorched wagon, the cart and wheels still intact but blackened and full of bullet holes. The scene shouted of violence. There were several crude sheds, no more than shelters, really, but for one that was larger and more sturdily constructed. Heath glanced at the signs of the horse's struggle within and then moved quickly away, suddenly clammy and nauseated. He kept his eyes averted from that black space and was much relieved when Jarrod noticed his distress and firmly closed the door.

They looked inside the wagon with some trepidation, but the fire had erased everything personal or identifying. Almost everything. As they were turning to go, Hannah said, "Is that a violin case?"

The case was rectangular, and scorched to the same hue as the rest of the wagon. Because of this, it was almost perfectly camouflaged where it lay below one of the bench seats. Nick reached in and worked the case loose and placed it on the ground. They all circled around as he popped open the latches and lifted the lid.

The violin was ruined. The case had been sufficient to keep the instrument from being reduced to ash, but the lacquer and glue had melted; the thin, carefully shaped wood panels were warped; and in the intense heat the neck had bent under the tension of the strings.

"Oh…" Audra said mournfully. The sight of the destroyed violin had struck a blow to her hope that the couple had survived – but Hannah had a curious, questioning smile on her lips.

Jarrod turned to her, eyebrows raised. "Hannah? What are you thinking?"

"Where's the other violin?" she asked simply.

They fell silent, looking thoughtfully at each other.

"Rustlers took it?" Nick suggested.

"Why would they take one and not the other?" Heath countered. "That's not their way." He could see now what Hannah was considering.

"Maybe they just didn't spot this one? We didn't see it at first. Though they would have looted first, and burned after, so it wouldn't have been scorched like this when they looked," Jarrod said, refuting himself. "Or - if they _had_ no interest in the violins – if all they really wanted was the horse –"

"Then where's the other one?" Audra jumped in breathlessly. "Hannah, you're brilliant! They probably only had time to grab one violin before they ran! _If_ they were dead, and _if_ Jasper had no interest in stealing the violins, then both violins would be here." She turned to Jarrod. "Right?"

Jarrod nodded. "It's not proof, and there are several "ifs" in your scenario, but it's a reasonable deduction. I can only hope you're right. And if they did make it out alive with a violin, it should make them a lot easier to find."

* * *

After that detour, the five travelers had a remarkably peaceful and uneventful passage back down the winding road that led to the valley. The weather had remained calm after the storm of the previous morning. The Stanislaus River provided an accompaniment to their singing for the first part of the descent, until they forded the river and began to move in a northwesterly direction.

They came to the place of the ambush while it was still full light. The horses grew nervous as they passed the spot where Digger had fallen, though there was no longer any visible evidence of the violence there. Nick commented that he wasn't surprised; while it might not be visible to them, the ground had been soaked with so much blood he was sure that to the horses' noses, the air was redolent with it.

Heath was scanning the woods around them with restless eyes as they moved through, absently calming Nike with a hand on her neck. He shivered with remembered cold. _Only four days ago_ , he thought, amazed. Fragmented and painfully vivid, the images of that night spun and flashed in the corners of his vision. He blinked a few times and raised a hand to rub his eyes, telling himself to settle down. He was glad it was daylight; the bright sunshine and clear air helped him to focus on his _here-now_ and keep other memories in their proper place. Still, he jumped when Jarrod rode up next to him and spoke.

"Heath, how you doing?" he asked quietly. Jarrod had seen Heath's hands shaking as he rubbed his eyes. He had deliberately not laid a hand on Heath for this very reason, and was a little surprised as how much he startled anyway just from hearing his voice. He waited for an answer while Heath recovered; the flash of fear passed quickly, but the pain in his body from the sudden movement took a bit longer to ease up.

Heath groaned softly as he shifted in the saddle. " _Dammit_ ," he muttered to himself, as annoyed with his jumpiness as with the pain.

"I'm sorry, Heath," Jarrod said. "I was trying not to sneak up on you."

"Not your fault."

"You OK?"

"Yeah." His eyes swept over the woods again. "Yeah, 'm alright. Just takes some doin' to keep it all where it belongs sometimes." He gave a short laugh. "I'm as skittish as these horses with their noses. At least they have something real to blame it on."

"What happened was real, Heath. And you're a bit better than these horses at figuring out what's a threat and what's not. Makes sense to me you'd still be jumpy. I think you've got to have a little patience with yourself."

"What's a threat and what's not?" Heath seemed to be rolling that over in his mind. He started to say more, hesitated, and then shook his head.

"What?"

"I think you might take this the wrong way –"

"Just tell me."

"It _is_ getting better. Got to a point these past months where nothing would stay where it belonged. Not the past, nor my own mind." He swallowed. "Not that that's not still a problem – but it's better - and some past things that blow in I can wrangle better than others." He glanced at Jarrod. "When I was eatin' dirt under those boys' boots up there in Strawberry, what I remembered was you."

Jarrod winced. He knew immediately what Heath was referring to.

 _Jarrod remembered being in a rush that night, stressed with contracts and details and the emotionality of the upcoming drive to San Diego, and all he wanted to get in the house and have an end to a long hard day. As he rode into the stable, Jarrod heard sounds of struggle coming from somewhere out of sight among the stalls; he heard several blows, scuffling feet and someone grunting in pain. He called out._

 _"Who's there? What's the problem?"_

 _No answer, but more scuffling, a few more blows, grunts of exertion, laughter, and the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground. Annoyed, Jarrod dismounted and rounded the corner._

 _"What is going on here?"_

 _"Vince, Hal, get 'im outta there, see if he's hurt!" That was Jess Cort talking, a long-time hand at the ranch. He was big, plenty strong, and tended to be an alpha among the employees. He seemed to be directing the other two men to assist someone injured, someone out of sight in Digger's stall. Digger was placidly chewing his feed. Jarrod again had the distinct impression that Jess had been laughing and was forcing himself to keep a straight face. "Evenin', Mr. Barkley. Just getting' the boy outta there. He musta done something to rile up old Digger here, caught a few kicks before we even knew what was happening."_

 _Jarrod sighed impatiently. He watched Vince and Hal drag a man out of the stall, one on each arm. He was trying to get his feet back under him to walk, but couldn't manage it. He sagged between them._

 _"Heath?" Surprised, Jarrod tried to catch his eye._

 _Vince and Hall laid him, not very gently, on the floorboards. As Jarrod watched, Heath groaned and pushed himself up to his hands and knees, still breathless from a blow he had taken to the stomach. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose. Exuding camaraderie, Jess knelt beside him and slapped him on the back._

 _"Heath, buddy, you OK? You gave us a scare! What'd you do to get that horse so mad? I ain't never seen him act like that!"_

 _Heath tried to draw breath to speak, but was still gasping like a fish out of water. All he could manage was a weak cough. He shook his head._

 _Jarrod noticed that in addition to the coating of dust and straw from the stall floor, Heath was also sweaty, filthy from head to toe, and still wearing his chaps – that is, he had clearly just come in from the range. He knew Heath had ridden out well before breakfast this morning. Had he been working the herd all that time? Eighteen hours?_

 _Jess looked up at Jarrod with an expression of open sincerity. "You look beat, Mr. Barkley, if you don't mind my saying. Why don't you head into the house? We'll take care of Jingo there – and Heath, of course. We'll make sure he gets back to the house in one piece." He gave Heath another hearty smack on the shoulder._

 _Jarrod **was** beat, and he really didn't want to deal with any more messy situations that night. He looked at Jess, and decided that he hadn't heard laughter after all. He nodded tiredly. "Yes, please do, Jess. Thank you." And he turned and walked out. _

Jarrod had firmly put that episode out of his mind as a moment of self-centered laziness – of willful ignorance, to be honest – a moment of which he was deeply ashamed. He'd never discussed it with Heath. He merely tried to counterbalance it, make up for it in other ways, and otherwise forget it ever happened.

He made himself look Heath in the eye. "I remember. I am sorry. I've never apologized to you for that. I –"

"Jarrod, that's not the point."

Jarrod went silent, surprised to see Heath was not looking at him with hurt or anger.

"The point is – well, I'm not sure how explain what the point is, but it's not that – it's a good thing, believe it or not."

"A good thing?"

"See, I remembered that, and yeah, it felt pretty terrible at the time to see you walk away, I won't lie about that. But when that memory came back at me up there in Strawberry, it just didn't have the same teeth. It was just another time a bunch 'a guys tried to put me in my place. So I could push it away, put it aside. Remembering you walking away didn't matter anymore, because – well, because I trust you. I know that's not _you_. You're not the threat. Does that make sense?"

Jarrod smiled, deeply relieved. "Yes, it does, actually. And I am very grateful for your forgiveness, because I have felt terribly ashamed of what I didn't do at the time."

"No worries, counselor." Heath crooked a smile at him. He was starting to relax a little more, and let his mind wander ahead to think about the best place to camp the night and whether they'd spot some likely game for dinner. "I'm thinkin' we've got two such excellent cooks traveling with us, we should try to push through to make camp up above Valley Springs by tonight. We'll bag something good to eat, have ourselves a nice dinner, and then ride in first thing in the morning."

There was enthusiasm all around with that plan. They paused briefly in Vallecito to send a wire home. _All is well - Home tomorrow morning – Hannah with us_.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

"Lord have mercy," Hannah murmured. "Will you jes' look at that house. That's not a _house_ , Heath, it's – it's –" She was at a loss for words.

Heath had ridden up close alongside the wagon as they approached the huge mansion. He knew from experience it could be overwhelming. Before they rolled in the gate, he had knotted his reins on Nike's neck and – not without a good amount of pain and gritted teeth – swung a leg over his saddle so he could step across into the driver's box and sit next to her. Nike, sociable horse that she was, trotted up to greet Nox and amble beside her into the wide yard in front of the verandah.

Heath wrapped an arm around Hannah and pulled her close to his side. "I know. It's huge. It's hard to believe."

Jarrod was taking his turn driving, and he was listening intently, very interested to hear Hannah's thoughts as well as Heath's. He had some worry that she would find the ranch intimidating, or even frightening. Nick and Audra, as well, were watching to see her reaction. The few days they had spent in Strawberry had given all of them a fresh perspective on their home, and in some ways they were all of them seeing it for the first time.

None of their party had very long to think on this, however.

Hannah spotted the group in the shade of the verandah first, as she was scrutinizing the house, while everyone else was watching her.

"Why, I think I see Mrs. Barkley," she said, "and, my, isn't she dressed like a queen. What a beautiful dress. The other lady too, her gown is beautiful. The whole group of them look so fancy! What's the occasion, so early in the morning? And –" She squinted toward the house. "Heath, isn't that Frank Sawyer? That nice marshal? Can't hardly recognize him in that nice suit and him sittin' there with his hat over his eyes. What a handsome group, but they all seem to be needing a nap."


	45. Chapter 45 - Rabble of Passions

_We live in youth amidst this rabble of passions, quite too tender, quite too hungry and irritable. Later, the interiors of mind and heart open, and supply grander motives._

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson_

 _The treasures of the deep are not so precious,  
As are the concealed comforts of a man  
Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air  
Of blessings, when I come but near the house._

 _Thomas Middleton_

Victoria was awakened by the lovely sound of a woman's laughter, full and strong and warm. Other sensations filtered in, but she was groggy, and she was some moments sorting the incoming information into some kind of understandable picture. There was bright sunlight flickering beyond her closed eyes, the familiar sound of birds and horses, and the pleasant feeling of John's arms tightening around her as she began to stir. She didn't want to wake up yet, as she became aware of him beside her, so she turned her face into his neck and snuggled up next to him instead, her arms around his chest.

She could feel him waking. He moved, and took a deep breath, and one hand came up to gently stroke her hair from the side of her face. She smiled, but squeezed her eyes closed against the bright flickers of sunshine. A brisk breeze swirled over them briefly and was gone, bringing a mix of all the smells of a ranch morning.

A breeze?

Her eyes flew open, and then just as quickly she covered them with one hand, as the flashes of morning sun that reached them through the wisteria and ivy were painfully bright.

Wisteria and ivy?

She swallowed. Her mouth was dry and unpleasantly tacky. Cautiously opening her eyes again, she could see John's broad chest, upon which she had laid her head. She ran her hand over the fine black fabric of the formal suit he wore, and noticed that his crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the throat and the black string tie was missing. The woman's laughter came again, and now Victoria was fully awake.

What the hell were they doing outside?

She lifted her head, carefully, because she sensed dizziness and nausea would come if she moved too fast. Keeping her eyes shaded, she looked blearily around and started putting together the jigsaw puzzle of the preceding night.

They were out on the verandah. _Really? Did we fall asleep out here?_ She looked at her companions. In one chair snored Frank, also wearing his best suit, his chin on his chest, his Stetson over his eyes and his legs stretched out before him. Next to him, on a chaise lounge that matched her own, lay Henry Winter and his wife Emily – her friend, John's sister. Henry was snoring, as was Emily. As Victoria watched, Emily would periodically giggle in her sleep, in response to a dream, or perhaps in response to the woman laughing out in the yard.

A woman laughing in the yard?

Squinting into the blinding sunlight of the yard, Victoria could begin to make out an arriving group with a wagon, from which the laughter came. _A wagon - the buckboard - they're home!_ Propelled by an equal mix of joy, excitement, confusion and embarrassment, Victoria pushed herself upright, then had to pause, sitting on the edge of the chaise until the vertigo passed. John was sitting up now as well, his warm hand at her back, his gray-blue-gold eyes smiling at her.

"Good morning, beautiful," he said. "Looks like we never actually called it a night last night. Though apparently if you keep celebrating for long enough, the night calls itself." They gazed hazily, happily at each other for a moment until Nike whinnied impatiently and Nick's voice came booming from the blurry group out in that blazing sunshine.

"What the devil is going on? Did you all spend the night out here?"

Victoria and John winced, and Frank, Henry, and Emily all stirred. Frank coughed and grumbled, "Who's making all that infernal noise? Must be Nick. Nick, boy, y'oughta know better! Cantcha see when a man's hungover? Not so loud!"

Victoria squeezed John's hand, and then, rising to her responsibilities as hostess and matriarch, she endeavored to stand and even take a few stately, careful steps forward. John, heroically, stood with her and accompanied her to the edge of the porch to greet the returning family.

Jarrod, Heath and Nick were all looking upon the scene on the verandah with nearly identical expressions of amusement, intermittently conversing among themselves, quietly, but with great animation. Hannah was beside herself with laughter, wiping tears from her eyes. Audra, astride the dignified Jingo, was shocked and moving rapidly toward outrage.

"Mother? What is - have you all been - are you - are you _drunk_?"

Much as he would have enjoyed sitting back and watching the drama unfold, Jarrod decided at this point he should step in and do what he could to moderate this homecoming, though ultimately he didn't get much of a chance. Doing his best to suppress his own laughter, he surveyed the picture before him. Here and there among the pieces of porch furniture were melted ice buckets holding the empty bottles of a fortune's worth of expensive champagne. Henry and Emily were upending several of these into their mouths to make sure they were truly empty. There was his mother, dressed in a gorgeous formal evening gown of deep emerald green, her hair falling down (rather enchantingly, he thought) from what must have been a perfect up-swept hairdo the night before. She looked a little unsteady on her feet, but there was John at her back, watching to make sure she didn't fall. Jarrod appreciated that, all the more so because the Marshal was looking plenty bleary-eyed himself. They both shielded their eyes from the sun as they peered out at their returning children and new guest.

"No, Audra," Jarrod said aside to his simmering sister. "She's not exactly drunk. I think she's hung over."

At this, Nick and Heath gave up and burst out laughing along with Hannah. Hannah leaned into Heath, hugging his arm to her side, and said, "Oh, Victoria Barkley, you are a good, good woman. Thank you so much. This was a great kindness you did for me here this morning, and you deserve all the love that I can see between you and your handsome man. Thank you so much."

This unexpected expression of gratitude seemed to jostle Victoria somewhat back into her social responsibilities, though her vision hadn't cleared enough yet for her to see the faces in front of her. She smiled graciously in Hannah's direction, however, and welcomed her warmly.

"Hannah, I can't tell you how happy I am that you've come. I have no idea what you're thanking me for – as you can see, I am utterly unprepared to welcome you properly to our family. I really should apologize –"

"Mrs. Barkley –"

"Please, call me Victoria."

"Victoria, I have to speak plainly. This home of yours is like nothin' I've ever seen in my whole life. It's a little frightening, especially since I just packed up my own house and don't ever think to see it again. I didn't know what to expect when I arrived here, but to find you and your man out here all a mess from celebratin' all night and barely awake – well, Victoria, it jes' keeps me in mind that there's regular people, a regular family, livin' here in this crazy big place. I woulda gotten there eventually, but knowin' that for a truth is a much better place to start. So I thank you for being unprepared." Hannah could barely finish her sentence before she was overcome with laughter again. Then, wiping her watering eyes with a smile, she looked over the disheveled group on the verandah. She waved to Frank. "How do, Marshal? Been a long time!"

Frank seemed to be managing the aftermath of their night a bit better than the others. He winced a bit at the sunlight, but he just pulled his hat down over his eyes and walked over to the wagon to greet them.

"How do, Miss Hannah? You look younger every time I see you. Just wanted to offer my sympathy to you about Leah, and Rachael. I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, Frank. We brought their headstones back with us, Heath's gonna find a place for them here."

"That's good, that's good. I'm glad you came back with Heath – he's been missing you somethin' terrible." He chuckled as Heath blushed slightly. "And maybe now I'll be able to get some of your cookin'."

"Anytime, Frank," she smiled.

Frank nodded hellos to Nick and Jarrod, then called to Audra.

"Miss Audra, how you doing?"

"I'm not sure," she said, sternly. She was still frowning at the group in the verandah.

He walked over to where she had held Jingo and looked up at her. "Now, don't look so disapproving, Audra. What's the matter?"

"I'm not sure," she said again, glaring suspiciously at Marshal Smith. She thought he looked very handsome in his black formal suit and white shirt, and she thought her mother looked very beautiful and happy there with her arm through his, and it was making her unaccountably mad.

"C'mon, Audra, this is a day to celebrate! Be happy for your mother! She's got big news for you, isn't that right, Vic?" Frank swept his arm toward John and Victoria, who both immediately felt the weight of the center stage spotlight Frank had just turned on them.

Henry and Emily had swayed to their feet as well and echoed Frank's exhortation. "Yes, tell them, tell them!"

There was an expectant pause, during which more sidebar discussion passed between the three brothers.

Victoria stared at Frank and then turned to look at John. John did the same. In a whisper, Victoria said, "Maybe get Frank over here? I just want to make sure I – I mean we –"

"You think maybe you imagined it? I was wondering that too, but then –" He lifted her right hand. A ring sparkled there, an emerald the deep green hue of her dress, flanked by a diamond on either side. The morning sun was in his eyes, and she had a powerful, absurd desire to leave off all this talking and explaining and just take some time to look in those eyes and decide what color they were. To her, just then, that seemed like a lovely way to spend the morning.

Audra had other ideas, and she was growing impatient.

"Mother? What news? What is it?"

"Well –" She hesitated, then she took a steadying breath and continued. "We had been waiting and worrying, and we were so happy to get your telegram that all was well, so we decided to celebrate. Frank had come back to Stockton on business, and I had already invited Henry and Emily out for dinner. So we started celebrating – and then – well, then Frank said, why don't we do something really worth celebrating?"

"Oh, so you're going to blame it all on me, are you?" Frank protested with a grin, walking back to the verandah. "Nothing to do with you two being crazy on each other? No sir. No ma'am. Just Frank's idea. How about big John here with the giant family emerald that he had made special into a ring for you? That had nothin' to do with it, I'm sure. This is all 'cause Frank said."

"As I was saying," Victoria continued, glaring at Frank as John tried not to laugh, "we had some excellent champagne, and we were toasting one thing after another, and then John asked me to marry him."

"And you said _yes_?" Audra was still having trouble getting comfortable with the idea.

"Well…"

Jarrod spoke up, as he needed clarity for the purposes of the high-stakes wagering that had been intensifying between the three brothers since they rolled into the yard. "So…did you accept, Mother?"

"Not exactly – you see – The way it happened was – well, he asked me to marry him. And so I did."

Heath whooped in triumph and hugged Hannah in celebration. "Congratulations! Mother, John, I couldn't be happier for you. Pay up, brothers."

Nick and Jarrod laughed in amazement. Shaking their heads, they both pulled out their wallets and each handed their laughing brother a sizable wad of cash.

"At least it's not just me this time," Nick said. "Jarrod doesn't usually make the mistake of betting against you, Heath. And I just can't resist it."

"I know, Nick, and I love that about you."

"MOTHER!" Audra yelled. "Is this true? You got MARRIED? Last night? Just like that?"

"Yes." Victoria wondered at how that _yes_ made her feel so spectacularly happy, even as she walked toward her surprised and angry daughter.

"Why?" Audra still hadn't gotten down from her horse, while her brothers and Hannah were now moving toward the house, the conversation full of greetings and congratulations.

Victoria stopped at her stirrup and looked up at her beautiful, strong, young daughter. Audra looked back at her with tears brimming in her eyes.

"Do you have any idea how much I love you?" Victoria said. "I don't know that you can, maybe not until you have a daughter of your own." Audra's expression softened just a little. Victoria smiled gently up at her. "You ask me why. There are so many questions packed in to that one word. Why – because I love him. He is a good, honest, brave man and he loves me. He does not replace your father, darling. I am blessed to have had two men I could love enough to share my life with. Why now? Because I'm not young. I don't want to wait, not when I am old enough to know what is right for me when I see it. Why last night? Well, that, to be honest, I blame on the champagne, and on Frank being a pest about being a Justice of the Peace, and Emily so excited about it all – and I love him, Audra. I want my life to be with him, here, now."

"It's very confusing," Audra said. "I'm mad and I'm not really sure why. Maybe it's partly because he's not Father. It bothered me at first, the connection between him and Heath. It was so strong, he was like a father to him, and I felt angry at _my_ father for not being there for Heath, for leaving that empty space for John to fill. And maybe I'm also jealous – I can see how much you love each other. I'd so want to feel like that someday." Before her mother could say something reassuring, Audra pressed on. "But the other thing is - I feel a little left out. If you're going to get married, I want to be a part of it, I want to help dress you up, and make a cake, and plan a party –"

Victoria held out her hands, and Audra swung down off of Jingo and stepped into her mother's open arms. As they hugged each other, Audra said, "I truly am so happy for you, Mother."

"I love you so much, Audra. Will you plan a party for me?"

"Yes. Absolutely, yes."


	46. Chapter 46 - A Mother's Prayer

_Thou restoreth my soul;  
Thou guideth me in straight paths for Thy name's sake.  
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,  
I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me._

 _Psalm 23_

* * *

 _The mother's heart is the child's schoolroom._

 _Henry Ward Beecher_

* * *

"Heath, just hold still for a moment, let me look at you, what _happened_ up there?" Victoria had hurried to the wagon as quickly as she could manage, with John reliably at her elbow.

She was still feeling a bit queasy and off balance, but her eyes had re-acclimated to daylight, and had immediately settled on Heath. Once he had pocketed his winnings, she noticed he uncharacteristically allowed Nick to assist Hannah down from the driver's box. The reason for this became quickly apparent, as she saw how long it took Heath just to get himself back down to the ground. He was clearly stiff and sore and bruised, and seemed to have stitches in one brow and a black eye.

Gripping his shirt sleeves, deeply worried now, Victoria turned Heath to face her. She scrutinized his face with a maternal intensity that Hannah, standing at his side, immediately recognized and appreciated. John, also, was studying him with concern. Heath met their eyes with a reassuring smile. Victoria relaxed somewhat and glanced at John to confirm he had the same initial impression: banged up as he was, Heath seemed more present and at ease than he had in months. She breathed a sigh of relief.

"It looks bad, I know, but it's alright. I tell you all about it later." He put his hands on her shoulders and held her gently at arm's length, admiring her. "You look so beautiful. I'm so happy for you." He hugged her, then looked to John with a grin. "Congratulations. I'm glad neither of you saw the sense in taking your time." He held out his hand, but John pulled him into a warm embrace as well. Heath turned to bring Hannah to his side. "This, of course, is Hannah James. Hannah, you know my mother Victoria…Smith? Barkley-Smith? Never mind, you can catch me up on that later. And this is Marshal John Smith, now officially and legally part of the family."

Hannah beamed at them both. "Victoria, it is good to meet you again under happier times. I confess I don't remember much of when we met before, I was so grieved after Rachael's death I don't think I was in my right mind. But I crossed that shadow valley and come back up to the sunshine. And John, Heath has told me so much about you, what a help and support and a friend you've been to him through these dark months. Bless you for that, for being at his side – it was so hard to hear what was happening and not be able to do anything but pray." She teared up a little, though she still smiled. "But that's passed, and today is a blessed day. Congratulations on your marriage."

John took her hand, then on instinct, being even taller than Heath, he knelt in front of her, which made her smile. "God hears a mother's prayers," he said. "I've come to love that boy of yours, and respect and admire him – and be infuriated by him – and it's an honor to meet the woman who helped raise him up to be such a fine man. I might have been at his side these past few months, but your love is where his strength comes from."

Hannah smiled and was silent and distant for a moment as she studied his face. Then she brightened, and glanced at Victoria with a wink. "You got yourself a smooth talker, Victoria, yes you do."

Victoria nodded sagely, smiling. "When he chooses to be," she agreed.

John held Hannah's gaze with a wry grin. "You're a bit of a smooth talker, yourself, Miss Hannah. You don't fool me."

"Took me about twenty years to figure that out, John," Heath commented. "You're pretty quick. I'll tell you a secret, though. It won't help. She'll still run circles around you."

This small crowd of family and friends could have lingered on the verandah indefinitely, talking and congratulating and catching up, until the hungover members of the party would begin to faint from dehydration and vertigo. Fortunately, before that could happen, Silas had made his appearance and within minutes had brought some common sense hospitality back in to play. He called up the stable hands to take care of the horses, and instructed them not to unpack the buckboard but simply leave it under the roof by the barn. He gently suggested to Audra that she see to Nox herself and then hurry back. He then ordered the five wedding revelers back indoors and out of the sun, instructing them each to drink one or preferably two big glasses of sweet ginger tea he had prepared in a pitcher. He then sent them off to their rooms to get out of their constricting evening clothes, wash up, and take a nap if necessary, while he prepared a late breakfast/early lunch for everyone.

Once the hungover elders had been dispatched, Silas now felt able to take a deep breath and give his attention to his homecoming travelers. Nick and Jarrod didn't need much tending, nor did Audra, once she came back from the stable. All three ran off to get cleaned and changed and flop down on their own comfy beds for a few minutes of rest before lunch. This left just Heath and Hannah, and that was good. He needed to take his own measure of how that bruised-up boy was doing and ease his worries, and he wanted to give Hannah his fullest consideration and a proper welcome.

Now suddenly alone in the quiet expanse of the foyer, the three stood considering each other in silence for a long, strange moment. Hannah and Silas looked bemused at each other. He offered her a smile of hopeful encouragement. She smiled back, but was shaking her head with an expression of amused disbelief.

Heath, looking back and forth between them and beginning to feel anxious, started to speak, but Hannah silenced him with an upheld hand and took a step back.

"Wait. Jes' wait a minute. I jes' need a minute to gape before I can even listen to what either of y'all have to say." She turned in a slow circle and then tipped her chin back to stare at the chandelier hanging over her head. "Child, you been here a year and a half. Do you get used to this?"

He gave a short laugh and rubbed his chin. "No, ma'am. Not really. Kinda just had to get the hang of it, living with all this stuff."

She looked at Silas. "Do you?"

"Get used to it? No, not exactly, but it's my place of work, so I get to know it real good."

Hannah nodded at that. She'd had plenty of house jobs back in Kentucky. She knew exactly what he meant. She turned again, humming her amazement. "And there's a whole lot more to this place. My, my, my. Barely inside the front door and I can hardly take it all in."

"Like you said, Hannah, it's still just a place for people live in. Even hungover people who have been up all night."

She laughed at that. "Did it help you to think of it like that, Heath, when you came?"

"Um – well – for me –" He was suddenly at a loss for words, abruptly remembering the first time he crossed this foyer.

 _He couldn't really even say it was the first time he'd "set foot" in the house, because he hadn't actually succeeded in getting his feet under him until Nick had dragged him across this foyer, across the parlor, and on into the study. There Nick had thrown him against the far wall, stalking away to pace the room and wait for Jarrod while Heath had picked himself up off the floor._

A wave of anxiety moved through him; his mouth went bone dry, his pounding heart seemed to be causing his hands to shake, and he fought back a powerful urge to run outside. "I don't know," he managed to say. "My first couple months here I was too busy trying not to be killed by the ranch hands to really think about it much."

It was an unsuccessful attempt at a joke, and he suddenly felt like a very inadequate host. _I can't help Hannah feel comfortable here if I'm coming apart at the seams. Just stop it._ He tried to think of a way to change the subject and get his train of thought going in another direction, but the memory had sunk its hooks in deep.

 _He hadn't really been afraid, that night, as he had faced those two dark-haired men in that room. He didn't think they'd kill him, at least not right there and then, not around all that expensive furniture. It wasn't fear he was remembering, but anger, anger so intense that for a moment he was amazed that he and the whole building didn't just burst into flames._

 _It had taken him by surprise, that anger. He hadn't planned in the least on announcing himself to this family when he came looking for work. Lying in his cot that first night, he had been mainly thinking about how excellent the food and the living quarters were, and intermittently marveling over that sister of his. Next to Rivka, he thought she might be the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. He wondered if that meant he might have daughters that pretty. He was just starting to worry about the problems that come of having such a pretty daughter when Nick's big, hard hand had clamped down over his mouth._

 _Even then, even through the whole fight in the barn, Heath had been mostly annoyed. He'd figured out, from what he could hear over the ringing in his ears, that Nick was convinced he was some kind of railroad spy. It was almost funny. Now, a man like Nick Barkley isn't going to starve if he's laid up and lame for a few days. Not so for a man like Heath Thomson. If Heath got much more beat up he wouldn't be able to work for a living. He had finally thrown down the bastard card because he couldn't see how else to get Nick to stop._

 _He'd thought it likely Nick would just run him off the ranch that night. Nick had instead, unfortunately, flown into another rage and beaten Heath near unconscious there in the barn. Why Nick then dragged him up to the main house, of all places, instead of just throwing him in a ditch, Heath still had no idea. But the fact was, even then, Heath wasn't truly angry. The real anger came when they demanded he speak of his mother, there in front of that portrait of Tom Barkley, the revered man with the fancy grave and the thousand mourners. They asked about his mother, and then they spat on her._

 _And what had helped with that?_ Heath tried to remember. It seemed to him the cooling down had started with Jarrod.

 _Even at the peak of his rage, he saw it in Jarrod's eyes._ The lawyer brother believes me. He remembers something. _Reluctantly, Jarrod had cracked opened the door for him, silencing Nick and allowing Heath just a few moments to speak of Leah and bring the reality of his mother into the room. It was Leah's presence, the real memory of her, which helped Heath damp down the inferno. He could picture her eyes, her laugh; could feel her touch and hear her voice telling him he was loved. There was only one of his mother; she was who she was, no matter what any Barkley living or dead thought about her._

 _When, a few short minutes later, Jarrod slammed the door closed and dismissed Heath as a con man, the anger didn't flare back up. What he felt then was disappointment, and distaste. He saw nothing in this Barkley family to believe in, and he was already thinking ahead to where he would go next._

Now he was here with Hannah, and Heath realized he was afraid. He wanted Hannah to be safe, and loved, and honored, and he never wanted reason to feel that kind of rage ever again. Standing there with her, in this house, just the memory of that moment was making him feel sick and off-balance.

 _Oh, no, no, no you don't. Stop it. Stay right here._

He cleared his throat, anxiously scanning around the room for something to focus himself on – and there, on the glass table in the middle of the foyer, was a huge decorative arrangement of pine cones for Thanksgiving. He took a breath and let it out with a laugh.

"Silas?"

"Yes, Heath?"

"Did you make this?"

"Yes I did, Heath. I thought you'd like it."

"I do. Very much. Thank you."

"Feeling better?" Hannah said. "Don't you go skidding off sideways, Heath. You still have to show me around."

"Yes, ma'am." He cleared his throat again and wiped his damp palms on the front of his shirt. "You've got a few choices where you can set up to live, Hannah, I'll take you to them later so you can see, alright?"

Hannah didn't answer; instead, she reached up a proprietary hand and turned Heath's face to the side to look critically at the stitches she had placed.

"I'm gonna clean those after lunch today." He started to object. "Uh-uh," she said, "don't you give me no trouble."

He dropped his complaint. "No, ma'am."

Silas tried to conceal a grin, and Heath narrowed his eyes at him.

"Boy howdy, what have I gotten myself into, bringing you two together -?"

Silas raised his eyebrows innocently and looked at Hannah, who smiled serenely.

"You're ganging up on me already."

Hannah took one more look around the foyer, then slipped her arm through Heath's. "OK, Mr. Silas, lead on."

"Come on this way, Miss Hannah, here's the dining room, another chandelier, and let me show you a kitchen that will make you feel like you're cooking in Heaven."


	47. Chapter 47 - Rivka

AN: The first part of this chapter is extracted/adapted from the final chapter of the preceding story "Trailmarkers". The verses in this initial section are passages from "River" by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

* * *

 _And I behold once more_

 _My old familiar haunts;_

 _Here the blue river,_

 _The same blue wonder that my infant eye_

 _Admired_

 _Where overhead the ancient crows_

 _Hold their sour conversation in the sky_

The river flowed brisk and shallow under the narrow wooden bridge, her song more treble in pitch now that winter was approaching, and the snows were clinging more fondly to the upper slopes of the Sierras. Heath paused, as he often did at this crossing, it being a beautiful spot, and the very place he first laid eyes on his brother Nick. Then, it had been spring, and the river had been deep and full, a rolling tenor with a baritone harmony.

 _They are the same, but I am not the same,_

 _But wiser than I was, and wise enough not to regret the changes,_

 _Tho' they cost me many a sigh_

It was barely sunrise, on what promised to be a clear late November day. The full moon was translucent, fragmented, a pale stained-glass window sinking behind the trees to his west. He took in the sight, listening to the flow of the water, absently stroking Charger's neck.

 _These trees and stones are audible to me,_

 _These idle flowers, that tremble in the wind,_

 _I understand their faery syllables,_

 _And all their sad significance_

In his saddle scabbard, rather than his usual Winchester, was an unstrung longbow and a quiver of arrows. Some of the hands had taken to teasing Heath that he had gone native over the summer - though they were starting to be impressed with his developing skill. Heath leaned on the horn of his saddle, shifting his weight to ease some of the persistent pain and stiffness that made climbing out of bed in the morning a challenge. He thought back to the setting of that September moon he had watched from the other side of the Sierra, that Nevada moon he had believed was his last. It certainly would have been, were it not for his family, his friends, his love.

 _I feel as I were welcome to these trees_

 _After long months of weary wandering,_

 _Acknowledged by their hospitable boughs;_

 _They know me as their son._

* * *

Heath had traveled home from Nevada with his brothers back in October, about a week after the deposition fiasco, and Risley's subsequent violent death. All three had stayed out at the Peterson place outside Carson City for the few days before they left, where Mike and Helena had happily set them up to bunk in the barn.

Over those days, Heath rested, ate, and recovered, Nick made arrangements to ship their bull and Nike back to Stockton, and Jarrod cleaned up what was left of their legal affairs in Carson City.

During the week in Carson City, they received a few telegrams with news from home. Rivka wrote letting Heath know that she could hold off on starting in San Francisco until later in the month, that she would wait in Stockton until the brothers got home, and stating in no uncertain terms that under NO circumstances, given his recent injuries, was Heath to get on a horse. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES. No Riding. At ALL.

So Heath had to content himself with saddling Nike and giving Mike's twins, Tommy and Artemis, riding lessons. Nick and Jarrod both got to ride the mare, when the three of them decided to take her into the pasture with the bull to get an idea how cowy she might be. The consensus was that she just might be a fine cutting horse. Heath had watched her dance and dodge in front of the bull, turning the animal back almost before the bull himself knew which way he was trying to go. Resting his chin on his arms as he leaned on the top rail, Heath wore a look of such puppy-dog yearning on his face that his brothers were almost tempted to disobey Rivka and let him mount up. Almost.

Heath wasn't allowed to ride, but that didn't stop Artemis, his 9-year-old drill sergeant, from riding him, and by the time the brothers left for home, Heath had made the climb up the north ridge several times.

"You need a minute to catch your breath?" She looked back at him over her shoulder. Being young, she didn't have the good manners to look even the least bit tired.

 _Lord, yes I do, I do._ "Keep on, girl. Why're you movin' so slow?"

She laughed at him. "Almost there. This is my favorite spot for target practice."

Taking the time to string the bows and set up a few targets - a bunch of pine cones here, a pile of deadwood there - Heath got a much-needed chance to get his wind back after the demanding climb. She pushed him, no joke, and he was feeling every bit of it. He knew he'd be glad for it in the long run. In his usual state of health, this climb - and this longbow - would be easy for him. He wanted that back. He needed that back. Chasing this fleet-footed redhead up a mountain seemed a good place to start.

Archery was not a skill he had ever mastered, but according to Artemis, he was a marksman, and therefore his skill would carry over to her choice of weapon. She also intuitively understood that the focus on a target would help him keep his mind off the pain as his arm got stronger.

"You know how to do this part, Uncle Heath. Breathe. Just use the muscles you need, relax the muscles you don't need. Breathe till you get centered on the target, then hold it - and then let it go. You'll know when."

 _Do what you know how to do, boy_.

Suddenly, the image of his brothers kneeling at gunpoint in a fire-lit campsite pushed into his vision, obscuring the cluster of pine cones he was sighting on. He gasped, dropping his arms. Stepping back, he blinked and shook his head, his heart racing. He let his breath out slowly, carefully, waiting for the terrible vision to fade.

"What's wrong?"

"It's okay, huntress. Just bad memories. It's okay."

She watched the side of his face, thoughtful. "My Papa gets those sometimes. He doesn't much like crowds, and he doesn't like to go hunting with his friends." She leaned in and gave Heath a quick kiss on the cheek. Surprised, he looked at her sidelong, a questioning smile on his lips.

"No more bad memories now. Only pine cones," she instructed him, gravely, pointing at the target.

He nodded, lifting the bow. "Yes ma'am. Only pine cones."

* * *

There was a feeling that kept turning over in him, like a smooth river rock rolling in the current. When the waters were calm and clear enough he could see it in his mind. It would seem to him that all the pain and all the love in his life, the fearful things and the blessed things, the things that were lost and the things that were gained - they all seemed born of each other, intertwined and flowing together. He didn't try to put words to this nascent vision. It moved through him as a sense of balance, an awareness that in its time the river would flow just as it was meant to, and so would he. On a morning like this, riding to meet his girl at the train station, it seemed as close at hand as that full moon behind the trees.

Charger finally swung his head to look back at him and shook his bridle with some impatience. Nike, tacked up and following on a lead line, agreed it was time to get moving, and nudged Charger with her nose.

"OK, OK, both of you, don't be getting pushy on this little bridge. We're going." Heath clucked the colt forward.

He came into Stockton at an easy canter, slowing to a walk as they approached the train station. Here and there, there were friendly greetings, some banter, a few calls of welcome home from people Heath hadn't seen since he'd been back from Nevada. After his experiences in Carson City, Stockton seemed utopian by contrast, his recent "legal troubles" and somewhat rocky history in this town notwithstanding. He pulled up at a trough to let the horses get a drink, and chatted with a few young cowboys who were admiring Nike.

* * *

Halfway down the block, Jarrod stood in the window of his law offices and watched his younger brother ride into town. To his eye - his admittedly worried big-brother eye – the changes in Heath were evident. His face was thin and drawn, and now bore the bruises of his encounters up in Strawberry. He still did not sleep well, and he startled easily. Following him with his gaze as he rode on to the station, Jarrod could see Heath did not move with his usual grace - his strength and stamina was improving quickly, but the tension and vigilance, not to mention the residua of his injuries, were slower to let go and burdened him still.

Jarrod would not complain, though. His brother - his whole family - was home safe, and he could see the steady return of joy in Heath as he moved through his life on their ranch. He'd been advised, by Heath, that he and Rivka intended to ride out on a "picnic" of indefinite duration as soon as they met at the train station, though he promised they'd be back to the house in time for the holiday. Jarrod smiled. He sensed his family, now, was truly ready for a day of Thanksgiving.

* * *

At the rail station, Heath dismounted and loosened the cinches on both horses. A tall, attractive older woman stepped out of the station building to greet him warmly. He smiled easily at her.

"Good morning, Mrs. Winter. How are you?"

"Very well, Heath. And you? It is so good to see you out and around and getting back to your usual work."

"Couldn't agree with you more, ma'am."

"John is coming back later today from Sacramento. He's bringing his daughter Grace, and her husband and baby – but of course you know that already." She smiled happily. "I just love seeing him and Victoria together. I'm so happy for both of them," she said, beaming.

Heath agreed wholeheartedly. "I know Mother is looking forward to meeting Grace and her family. We all are."

Heath glanced up at the station clock and began to excuse himself to go wait for the train.

"Oh, Heath, wait, wait! That reminds me, I have something for you. Just wait, I won't be a minute." She hurried around to the yard behind the station master's house. She returned with a large colorful bouquet of fall blooms from her garden.

"This is beautiful."

"For you, to give to Rivka." She chuckled at Heath's obvious gratitude and gave him a quick hug. "Get along now, don't be late."

Heath ran up to the platform. There was no sign yet of the train, and so he took to pacing, careful of the bouquet, watching, waiting, wanting.

Finally, the train arrived in a familiar cacophony of squealing brakes, rhythmic machinery, and hissing steam. The platform was filling with people all travelling for the holiday or waiting for their loved ones to arrive. Heath walked up and down, looking for his girl. From somewhere behind him, he heard her call his name.

"Heath!"

The train had not yet rolled to a stop, but she was leaning out one of the doors, holding on with one hand, smiling and waving to him.

Rivka leaped down to the platform and ran to him. Her long dark hair escaped from the loose chignon in which it had been coiled and fell down her back as she jumped laughing into his arms and hugged him tightly.

He held her close, closing his eyes and burying his face in her hair. He breathed in her warm, female scent and sighed her name, softly, over and over, as though it were an incantation that would make her real and keep her in his arms.

Rivka was tall, almost as tall as Heath, slim, and strong. She was dramatically beautiful; her dark eyes were active and intelligent. Her strong angular features, in repose, gave her an appearance of thoughtful intensity, but her face was wonderfully expressive, and her luminous smile made Heath feel warm and weightless and full of butterflies.

Holding her in his arms now after so many weeks apart, he felt he might weep with joy. They embraced on the crowded platform, heedless of the eyes upon them; most of them looked on with surprise, and quite a few with disapproval. The public display of affection, especially between a man and a woman not married, was out of the ordinary. So too was Rivka's appearance, dressed as she was in slacks and boots for riding.

Many at the station already knew who she was. Stockton was still a small town, the Barkleys were well-known and almost always drew public attention, and this particular pairing was rich fodder for those who wished to gossip.

Rivka had been at the Barkley's home when the brothers had come home from Nevada, and stayed with the family until she had to go to San Francisco to begin work at the hospital there. She had been introduced, when the occasion arose, as a physician, and as Heath's fiancée. The fact that she was also a Jew, while this was not explicitly announced, did not escape the notice of those in town who tended to notice such things. And so there was talk and speculation, there was commentary, and judgement, and most especially there were dire predictions of the decline and fall of the Barkley legacy.

 _"They take that backwoods whelp right up into their good family, and you see what that brings? A Jew, of all things. A Jew girl who thinks she's gonna work as a doctor? A lady doctor? I mean really. Where are they gonna get married? How they gonna baptize the kids? Is she gonna become a Christian? And how's she gonna be a wife and mother, anyway, if she's gonna be a doctor? Really. A bastard with a Jew wife. It's a disgrace. I don't know where all the Barkleys can go with this except down. I sure hope for Victoria's sake she can still get Audra a good marriage, and good wives for her real sons so someone can carry on the family name."_

Such was the chatter in the barbershops and dress shops and churches. It had died down since October, Rivka being out of sight in San Francisco, but now with her rather visible return to Stockton, the topic immediately reignited, and was already spreading outward from the crowded holiday train platform.

None of this was on either Heath's or Rivka's mind, however, as they hurried out of the station to where the horses were tethered.

"Is that all you brought?" Heath asked, looking at the messenger-style bag she handed to him.

"Audra and I wear the same size," she reminded him, admiring the bouquet from Emily's garden. "She told me just to bring a few personal necessities, and I could otherwise wear anything of hers! And you told me to come dressed to ride, so here I am."

"Perfect," Heath pronounced. He checked and tightened the cinches on both horses, rolled the bouquet and Rivka's bag in a blanket and secured it behind his saddle, then stepped over to help her mount. Before he could do so, however, she winked at him, grabbed the horn of Nike's saddle, and vaulted on board effortlessly.

Picking up her reins, she grinned down at him. "Perfect," she agreed.

"Pretty smooth, darlin'," he said, smiling back, but there was a wistful look in his eye.

"I was taught by the best," she replied. "Your turn."

He shook his head. Gathering Charger's reins, Heath ducked under the colt's neck and prepared to mount up the way most mortals do, using the stirrup. Even that method these days made him feel like a stiff old man.

"C'mon, now, cowboy. Aintcha gonna even try?" Rivka's question was spoken with affection and humor – her educated European speech now replaced with the accent of an American cowpoke that she was wont to use when teasing him - but her words contained a firm challenge to him that demanded a response. He stopped, his forearms resting against the warm leather of his saddle. He met her eyes and knew immediately she held all the cards. Her expression was loving, but her gaze upon him was intense, even unyielding. Her full lips curved in a slow, thoughtful smile that was surely setting his insides on fire, and he thought he would go mad if he couldn't get her off somewhere alone, soon, now, immediately. There was this lovely hidden patch of meadow on Barkley land, right along the Mokelumne, and he planned to ride there with her just as fast as they could –

She cleared her throat, and he realized she was waiting for an answer.

He swallowed. "I - it's been -"

"Good thing I'm here. Looks like you're in need of some physical rehabilitation." She leaned forward on the horn of her saddle, looking for all the world like she herself was in no hurry. "Let's start now. First things first. No stirrups."

He looked at her over Charger's back, started to try to negotiate, but she shook her head. "Uh-uh. First things first. Jump up on that horse, cowboy."

He studied her narrowly. "So that's how it is, is it, Dr. Levi?"

She nodded, smiling, her eyes never leaving his.

He nodded then, folded his cards, and tossed them on the table. Taking a deep breath and blowing it out, he reached up to grab the horn of his saddle. That movement alone seemed to pull his ribs and muscles in directions they had no willingness to go. He closed his eyes, not wanting this all to show on his face, and reminded himself he'd been doing this all his life. He stepped back with his right, forward with his left, jumped, and pulled with his arms for all he was worth.

He had hoped he could accomplish it silently, but that proved impossible. When he could think clearly again through the pain he opened his eyes, and was gratified at least to see that he was astride his horse, albeit hunched over the pommel and groaning like a wind-broke mule. He felt like he had just torn loose and rearranged most of the muscles in his upper body.

"I hope that looked better than it felt," he wheezed.

"Judging by the look on your face, love, I think it must have."

He slid his eyes over to her and raised an eyebrow. "Now there's faint praise if ever I've heard it."

Her eyes twinkled, and now she was grinning in anticipation. "You always tell me things look better from the back of a horse, love. Let's ride." She threw back her head and let out a high, trilling, celebratory whoop she had learned from some Roma women she'd met as a child, traveling cross-country with her family. It was a wild, exciting sound, and it almost never failed to give Heath a smile and chills down his back. He was certain Stockton had never heard anything like it. Charger tossed his head, and Nike whinnied in response. Heath sat himself up in the saddle and thought himself the luckiest man on Earth. They wheeled the horses and took off at a gallop.

* * *

 _I hear the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake,_

 _Their hoofs heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;_

 _The North unfolds above them clinging, creeping night,_

 _The East her hidden joy before the morning break,_

 _The West weeps in pale dew and sighs passing away,_

 _The South is pouring down roses of crimson fire:_

 _O vanity of Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire,_

 _The Horses of Disaster plunge in the heavy clay:_

 _Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat_

 _Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast,_

 _Drowning love's lonely hour in deep twilight of rest,_

 _And hiding their tossing manes and their tumultuous feet._

 _W.B. Yeats_

 _"Michael Robartes Bids his Beloved Be at Peace"_


	48. Chapter 48 - Home Felt, Home Created

_Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.  
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;  
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,  
Is cropping audibly his later meal:  
Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal  
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.  
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,  
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal  
That grief for which the senses still supply  
Fresh food; for only then, when memory_  
 _Is hushed, am I at rest._

 _William Wordsworth (1770–1850)_

* * *

 ** _Thanksgiving Eve, November 1874_**

As the November night fell, the valley yielded herself once again to the embrace of the mountains. After a day soaked in sunshine, the warm, fertile soil reached out to welcome the weight of atmospheres that spoke to her of ice and snow and granite peaks. Breathing it in, she softened the harshness of cold altitudes; exhaling, she unfolded blankets of mist and moving fog to enclose and conceal the small canvas tent staked on the south bank of the Mokelumne.

Heath had provisioned the spot well, having cached a tidy bundle suspended from a tree branch the day before with food, blankets, a tent, and some other basic camping necessities. He'd even prepared a sturdy basket, padded inside with burlap, which he had submerged on a tether in a deep sheltered eddy of the river. Inside he'd stored a few things to keep chilled: a bottle of wine he knew Rivka had enjoyed at her last visit, as well as a few bottles of cider.

Setting up an orderly, well-provisioned camp, however, was never going to be the first order of business that morning, once their eastward gallop from Stockton brought them onto Barkley land and to this lovely meadow by the Mokelumne. Saddles and bridles were quickly pulled and dropped in place, and the two horses drifted to the river for a drink and some grazing under the trees. Rivka grabbed the rolled blanket from the back of Heath's saddle. The hasty movement unfurled the bundle and tossed her bouquet into the air. Laughing, she caught it neatly, and then wrapped her arms around Heath's neck as he picked her up, flowers, blanket, and all, and carried her to a shaded, grassy spot.

They did somehow manage to get the blanket down on the grass beneath them before they had tumbled to the ground themselves. Clothes were discarded without a thought as to where they might land, caught up as they were in their hunger for this reunion of touch and taste; of hands and skin and muscle; of shared breath and flowing hair and passion and laughter.

High noon brought the sun upon them where they lay together, sated and drowsing for the moment. They rose then. Heath assembled their campsite properly, pitched the tent, and set out their picnic; then he whistled for the horses to get them tethered nearby. Rivka waded barefoot into the river to wash up and fill the canteens, with a few yelps of surprise at the coldness of the water. Heath gazed at her in wonder, thinking she looked like a river goddess from some ancient Greek myth. Smiling, he retrieved the cold cider from his basket, and the couple settled in together by their tent to share a meal.

They clinked their bottles together. " _L'Chaim_ ," Rivka toasted him.

" _L'Chaim_ ," he replied, glad her father the Rabbi had coached him in the proper pronunciation. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. Still, even in this bright sunny place, it seemed he couldn't outrun himself. Threats flashed and disappeared at the edges of his vision like fragments of a broken mirror, tugging at his mind and his nerves; these images were now a daily, painful phenomenon, but on this beautiful morning, they were at least circling at a distance. _Was it her presence,_ he wondered, _that kept them from closing in?_

As if to prove him wrong, the feeling suddenly intensified; the tugging sharpened and yanked on him hard, like a dog with its teeth sunk in and working to shake him loose and drag him away. The contorted face of the dead rabid hound pushed into his vision. Startled, Heath closed his eyes and shook his head, feeling as though he had been physically pulled off balance. Rivka regarded him intently, watching the sudden changes in his expression.

"Heath," she said, "do you want to tell me what's been going on? What's been happening with you? And what happened in Strawberry?"

He caught his breath and focused on her voice. He thought of what Hannah and Silas had said to him.

 _You got a ways to climb, child, a long ways to travel to get back home. You gotta set aside the burdens that aren't yours to carry, 'cause your road is hard enough already. Ain't gonna be smooth and easy. You gonna think about giving up. But I think you know the way._

"No, not - not now. I will - I promise. I think I just - darlin', today at least, I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it. I've missed you so much. I want to hear about you. Come tomorrow I'm gonna have to share you with the whole rest of the family, so right now I want to hear everything you can tell me." _You help me remember there's a future,_ he realized _. I keep forgetting. I keep forgetting –_

The truth was, now that Rivka was here, Heath found himself beyond reluctant to share with her what a broken mess he had become. This tugging and pulling, this _going away_ \- it felt like a warning, a message to him that those teeth were never going to let go; that this was _his_ future; there was no pulling together the torn and shredded edges of his mind. He knew he was asking Rivka to let him off the hook, to let him fake it, to imagine he was normal. _Just for tonight,_ he thought, _I can hold you and love you and keep you safe in this little tent by the river. I can do that._

Rivka set down her bottle and moved in close to look him in the eye. "Don't you start pretending with me," she warned.

"No, ma'am," he said earnestly. "Well, maybe just a little."

"You want me to act like you're fine." He nodded. "You know I'm going to figure it out anyway, and if I don't I'm going to ask Hannah."

"Yes, ma'am."

She studied him for a minute, weighing her options. Then she smiled. "OK. Here's my counteroffer. For tonight. I'll let you pretend you're fine. Here's what I want to pretend." She leaned in and whispered in his ear.

He blushed and raised his eyebrows in surprise. Then he met her laughing gaze and grinned. "You have a deal, darlin'." He tumbled her back down to the blankets, and for some time after that, all he could think of was the wild beauty he held in his arms.

Rivka had once told Heath, matter-of-factly, that she wanted to enjoy him "every way I possibly can without becoming unintentionally pregnant." As a female physician caring most often for female patients, she was in a unique position to study the vast unacknowledged, unpublished women's lore of fertility and planned pregnancy, and to make her own educated assessment as to what constituted wisdom and what was superstitious nonsense. Given the pleasure she and Heath found in each other, Rivka had made this a point of practical study for her own purposes, though when appropriate, she readily shared her knowledge with her patients and colleagues. She – along with the other women physicians of the Pacific Dispensary - strongly believed that promoting the health and education of women was one of the most effective ways to ensure the well-being of the whole family – and the ability to plan and control one's own childbearing was an essential part of that.

Rivka was also rather inventive, and had in Heath an equally creative and willing partner in exploring the myriad ways they could please each other. They spent the afternoon in each other's arms, talking, kissing, dozing, drinking wine, kissing and talking some more. As the sun sank down, the temperature fell and the fog began to gather. Heath built a small fire, and they retreated into their blankets in the tent for warmth. Darkness drew down, and eventually the whispering of the river began to lull them to sleep. Heath gazed at the roof of the tent, watching the canvas rise and fall with the night breeze, his eyes growing heavy.

 _There was a voice of a girl that flowed in and out of his dreams during the days following the liberation of Carterson. His mind was adrift for much of that time, sometimes in places that seemed safe and comforting, most times not. The girl's voice spoke beautiful words that he couldn't fully understand, but her voice and the beautiful words were like a shining silver thread woven through that timeless passage, a silver rope he could follow back to a peaceful place when he became lost among the nightmares and memories._

 _Cool air moved gently over his face and bare chest, waking him from sleep. He lay still, taking a moment to look, smell, listen around him. He was still in Carterson, he saw, as he looked around him, but it had been transformed into a small field hospital and Union Army outpost. As he turned his attention to his own condition, he saw himself as he had been, just turned 16, thin and battered. He was lying on a cot in an open-sided tent, covered to his waist by a blanket. His right hand, he found, was resting upon the shoulders of a sleeping girl, his fingers entwined in her dark hair. Rivka. She was only 12 then, so young, but already so brave and so strong. She was sitting on a low chair by his cot, a book in her lap. She had fallen asleep with her head resting beside his right hip._

The sight of her overwhelmed him with relief; with love and with gratitude that she was safe; and with the awful fear of what might have been. They had come so close to being captured. Heath had hidden Rivka and her family and stayed behind to deflect Bentell and his guards. And now they were safe. The relief and joy filled him and flowed in tears upon his face.

Heath woke with the image of that January day 10 years ago vivid in his mind. Rivka stirred beside him and rested her head on his shoulder, her breath warm on his neck. He thought then of her words to him over the summer, when she had come to him in Nevada.

 _Don't start thinking like an inmate, Heath, you never did before. We rise together, cowboy._

He pulled her close, and gently stroked her hair away from her face. Then he smiled, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, as the fog answered to the whispered call of the river.

* * *

This morning, U.S. Marshal John Smith was a happy man. It was a beautiful late November day, the day after Thanksgiving, and he was riding at an easy lope across the Barkley Ranch north pasture with Victoria.

 _With my wife, Victoria._

Just thinking that phrase to himself made him feel like his heart would swell out of his chest. That remarkable and beautiful woman was riding at his side, looking as relaxed and in her element in the saddle as she did presiding over a formal dinner - or handling a rifle, for that matter.

John looked over the beautiful open range of this northern section of the Barkley spread, rising as it did to the foothills of the Sierras to the east. A little way ahead, he could see two men working side-by-side to put in a new corral. There was Nick, tall, broad-shouldered, dark haired, talking and gesturing even as he worked tirelessly. Working beside him was a smaller man, fair-haired. That would be Heath, moving with deliberation, not talking or gesturing, but steadily matching Nick effort for effort.

Today they were assembling a much-needed paddock to be used as training space for the expansion of the horse breeding and training enterprise. This section of the ranch was developing quickly: the new barn was almost completed and provisioned, the outdoor enclosures were taking shape, and yesterday, Hannah had decided to take the cabin there as her new residence. She already had enlisted Jarrod's help in staking out – and breaking - a section of ground for a garden. John could see smoke rising from the chimney of the small cabin and imagined he could smell something tasty cooking.

Seeing the brothers at work, it was clear to John that Heath was still struggling to regain the strength and mobility he typically would bring to his work on the ranch. He knew, too, how hard Heath had fought to hide that fact from his family, and especially from Nick. Heath and Nick continued to butt heads over that topic, but seemed to have come to some sort of understanding as their work together moved forward.

Looking out beyond the two laboring brothers, John smiled to see another remarkable, unexpected blessing. The laughter of young women came to him across the pasture. Audra was riding Nox on a longe line held by his daughter Grace, who was calling suggestions to her as Audra guided Nox through some complex gait and lead changes. Rivka stood with Grace, calling her encouragement and holding Grace's baby girl – John's first grandchild – on her hip.

 _My granddaughter. Caroline. Named for Grace's mother. Oh, Caroline, we've missed you so. You would be so proud of your little girl now. I know she will be a wonderful mother._

Grace was tall and lanky, like him, but her golden brown hair was exactly like her mother's, as was her laugh and her joyful voice as she called to the horses.

Grace had suffered so with the loss of her mother and then the brother she adored. She and her father were very close, but Grace was often alone growing up, though she was not a loner by temperament. John was deeply pleased to see the warm welcome with which Grace and her husband were received by the Barkley family. Grace's husband Liam was a friendly, energetic, practical man who easily fell into the activities of the moment; right now he was employing his carpentry skills to assist with some finish work on the barn. Baby Caroline was roundly admired and entertained, and Grace herself suddenly found she had a plethora of surrogate mothers, sisters, and brothers.

Victoria could see the poignancy of his smile as he watched the girls. "Is she very much like Caroline?"

John nodded. "Oh yes. Very." He turned to Victoria, his admiration of her plain in his expression. "You don't miss much, do you, ma'am."

"Neither do you, Marshal," she smiled back. "Are you going to talk with Audra today?"

"Yep. No time like the present."

They rode forward to where Nick and Heath were taking a break from digging post-holes to drink some water.

"You're slowing down."

"You're imagining things."

"No, I'm not. Nick, this past hour we've put in 5 fewer posts than we did the hour before. Don't you start slacking off just 'cause you think I can't keep up."

"Me? I'm not – what – how do you know that?"

"I can count, Nick. And it's 11:20."

John pulled out his pocket watch. "Why, yes it is."

"Alright, well, so what if I'm trying to slow you down. You think I can't tell when you're –"

"When I'm **_what_**?"

Jarrod strolled over from the cabin, taking a break himself from busting sod in Hannah's garden.

"Gentlemen, what's all of this reasoned and sober discussion you're having over here?"

"Our little brother is lame and halfway to being buzzard bait, and he's yelling at me 'cause I'm pulling back on the reins."

"You're well more than halfway, if you ask me, Heath. Speaking as an outside, objective observer, of course."

Heath scowled at the length of fence yet to go and didn't respond. He knew Nick was right, but he wasn't ready yet to admit it. He took another pull from the canteen. His expression softened as he heard the laughter and animated talk of the three women out in the field. They had turned Nox loose to run, and were now preparing to walk back to the group at the fence line. Heath hurried toward them to take the saddle and bridle Audra was carrying.

Rivka handed Caroline back into Grace's arms and studied Heath as he approached. He'd pushed too hard this morning, that was clear, and the limp looked pretty bad. His spirit seemed more at ease, though, and she saw no pretense as he met her gaze with a smile. He fell into step beside her, his right hand warm at her back. She leaned into him and kissed his cheek, slipping her arm around his waist, and smiled as he flushed slightly and pulled her closer to his side.

* * *

John walked out to the pasture as well, hoping to have a few words alone with Audra before she rejoined the rest. "It's amazing to see what you've done with that horse, Audra. Really extraordinary. You should be proud."

Audra received his praise politely. "Thank you, but I think it's really the other way round. She knows it all already. She's been teaching me."

"Then I'll compliment you on being such an excellent student. You work beautifully together."

She softened slightly as she gazed out at Nox, now grazing near the other horses. "She knows how to do things I didn't even know a horse could do. Ilsa must have given her so much time and love and thought to raising and training her. That's what I think of every time I look at her. I think of that, and what terror and pain they both have suffered, and how wonderful it would be if they could be together again."

"I wanted to talk to you about that," he said. "I've got letters and wires out to every Federal Marshals' office in this part of the state, and several sheriffs' offices as well. Frank just wired to let me know he's chasing down a few leads in his territory."

She brightened. "Really? Oh, I hope he brings us good news –"

"I hope so too. Regardless, we'll keep at it. There's a little settlement below Sonora, in the foothills. Name of Jamestown. Just a collection of farms, really, trying to be a town. A buddy of Frank's was telling him about a terrific young violinist who played for a wedding party there about a month ago. Not a fiddler, mind you, but a _violinist_. I thought it sounded worth checking out. I have some business up that way, more deputies to recruit. Heath agreed to ride with me to help out, so long as we waited till after Rivka heads back to San Francisco." He watched her face. "Thought maybe you might like to bring Nox and come along."

" _Would_ I? Absolutely!"

He was glad that elicited something of her usual spontaneity and animation. Her overt displeasure with him had eased, but in its place now she mostly gave him good manners and polite reservation. He hadn't been able to draw her out, despite his best efforts. Even now, on the heels of her enthusiasm, she considered what he had just said, and he could see she was now regarding him with a return of some of her former mistrust.

"You're taking Heath?" She stopped walking and faced him. "You _bet_ I want to go. Someone needs to make sure you don't get him in any more trouble." He started to answer, but she didn't give him a chance. "Understand this, Marshal, if you let him get hurt again, so help me, I'll chase you all the way back to Nevada myself."

 _Just like the night I first met this young lady. No question whose sister she is. I've been skewered by those familiar, furious blue eyes before._ Skewered, yes, all the more so because her accusation cut so close to his own feelings of worry and responsibility. He and Audra - they didn't disagree, he realized, and so he spoke to that.

He turned to face her fully. "I'd give my life for him," he said simply and with absolute gravity.

Audra found herself suddenly speechless. Her fear arose from her absolute, bedrock love for her brother. She also knew that the verbal gauntlet she had just thrown at Marshal Smith was provocative and one-sided; delivered in a wrapping of teenage drama, her words became less a form of communication, and more a way to vent her anxiety. Despite that, she realized, John Smith had seen past the bluster to what mattered. He'd responded to her with respect, and, she thought, with honesty.

"You know, I wasn't just complimenting you just to get on your good side. Truly, Audra, I admire you." She seemed to be listening, at least. He plowed on. "It takes courage and stamina to keep your heart and your eyes open, to go through life with both compassion _and_ commitment. In my experience, many don't have your strength to keep that balance."

He looked over at Grace and Caroline, who were laughing as Liam tossed the baby in the air. "I've raised two children," he said. "I lost my wife when they were small – Grace was only 3 and James was 14 – it's been over 20 years ago, now. Believe me, I know what it is to be a father. I know it's not a position a man can claim just 'cause he can put on the title.

"I do not presume to step in as your father, Audra. I love your mother. I offered her my life and my devotion, and she gave me a gift beyond measure when she accepted. I am sworn to stand by her and care for her - _and_ to serve the family she loves, in whatever way I can. The fact that this family includes you, and your brothers – four people I have come to love and respect each in their own right – is a blessing beyond anything I ever imagined.

"If someday I also have the honor of calling you daughter, I will count myself a very, very lucky man."

* * *

Back at the fence line, Heath stepped away to lay the saddle and bridle over a top rail. Rivka looked around for Audra. She was still out in the pasture, talking with John. The conversation had seemed a bit heated at first, but Rivka was surprised and pleased to see the two now walking toward them very companionably and arm-in-arm. She caught Heath's eye and they shared a smile. Audra had bent her ear for a good long while before and after the Thanksgiving dinner yesterday. Understandably, Audra had been in desperate need of a sympathetic female ear, someone outside of the family, with whom she could hash out all of her jumbled and ambivalent feelings about this marriage. Grace's entry into the discussion, rather than being awkward, simply added to the wide-ranging momentum of their female conversation, with her reverse-angle perspective on the same problem. Rivka knew Marshal Smith could be charming and quite eloquent, but she suspected he owed a great deal of his progress today to the therapeutic effects of the camaraderie that the young women now shared.

As they were turning Nox out to pasture, the girls had become deeply engaged in a discussion about a party dress Hannah had offered to make from a bolt of embroidered silk the girls had discovered in the attic. This discussion immediately resumed where they had left off, as soon as Audra had approached within earshot. Audra stood on tiptoe and gave John a quick kiss on the cheek before she moved away like a gust of wind to rejoin her friends. He stood still for a moment with a slight smile, then shook his head and ambled over to Victoria.

"Even mother doesn't remember where that fabric came from," Audra said. "It looks so exotic."

"I can't wait to see how it comes out. Hannah has a really interesting idea on how to drape the silk to take advantage of the embroidery. I don't know a thing about how to make dresses, but what she's planning, I don't think I've seen anything like it before."

"Hannah's making the dress, did you say?" Nick, strangely, was suddenly very interested in the conversation.

"Yes –" Rivka answered, puzzled. "Why do you ask?"

Heath turned to listen, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at Nick.

"Yes, Nick, why _do_ you ask?" Jarrod chimed in. He had no idea where Nick was going with this, but he knew that tone of voice from long experience. Nick was about to take center stage, and some manner of trouble was in store for someone. Jarrod was pretty sure it wasn't him, though, so he was content for now to watch the scene unfold.

Nick looked around him innocently, pausing to make certain he had everyone's attention. "Well, I don't know a thing about making dresses either. But with Audra's party being such a special occasion, and with it being such a special design, we really should make sure that Hannah has _everything_ she needs to do her work properly. Don't you think so, Heath?"

"Nick…" Heath warned.

Jarrod looked around him and saw that everyone in the group was as mystified as he. _What in the world was Nick getting at?_ He looked a question at his mother, but she just shrugged and shook her head.

Nick continued, becoming louder and more expansive. "What I mean is, it could be difficult, and challenging, and so it's a _very_ lucky thing she has Heath here to –"

His exposition was abruptly cut off when Heath launched himself away from the paddock fence and tackled Nick into the dirt. Audra and Grace gave a small shriek of surprise and moved quickly out of the range of combat. Jarrod began to laugh, and Victoria and John just looked at each other, utterly confused. Rivka decided not to intervene – yet – and merely watched for injuries.

The dust flew and the wrestling match continued for several minutes. Nick was handicapped by his laughter, but his size and strength soon prevailed, and once again, he had Heath pinned to the ground.

Rivka knelt down where Heath was growling in his futile effort to throw off his brother. "Love, clearly we are going to have to keep working on your strength and stamina. My mother just wrote to say that my brothers are definitely coming to spend the whole summer with you – and she thinks they've grown at least another inch since September." Heath stopped struggling and whimpered slightly at this news, looking up at her to see if she was serious. She smiled mischievously. "You know you're their favorite playmate, and they miss you terribly. You've got some work to do if you are going to survive my brothers' attentions." She glanced up at Nick, trying not to laugh. "Sorry to interrupt, Nick. You were saying? About the dress-making?"

Heath groaned, resigned to his fate as Nick's entertainment.

"Yes, _as_ I was saying, it is very fortunate that Hannah has Heath here to –"

"Oh, wait, Nick, hold on -" Rivka interrupted again. "Hannah! I'm _so_ glad you're here. Listen, Nick wants to make sure you have everything you need to take on the challenge of making this dress. Remembering, of course, that we three are a bit taller than most of your usual clients."

Hannah had walked over from the cabin to invite everyone to eat the lunch that she and Silas had been preparing in her new kitchen. She stood now with a bemused smile on her face, hands on hips, and winked at Rivka.

Nick started again to speak, but now it was Hannah who cut him off.

"Now, Nick," she said in a kindly, but authoritative tone. "I truly do appreciate your willingness to help with this project. But before you go volunteering your brother, you should know I might need an assistant with a little more height. Like you, for example."

Heath gave a muffled laugh that turned into a yelp as Nick leaned his weight onto him. Nick looked up at Hannah in sudden alarm, wondering when it was that he had lost his control of the situation.

"Oh, now, Hannah, I don't think –"

"Mm-hm, yes, that might be best," she nodded thoughtfully, looking Nick up and down.

Nick searched his mind but could not think of a response that would regain him the advantage. He sighed, released his brother, and sheepishly conceded Hannah the victory. Heath, grinning, rolled over and sat up with a grateful glance at Hannah, brushing the dust from his shirt.

"Will one of you _please_ explain to me what you are talking about?" Victoria interjected.

"Yes, please do," agreed Jarrod.

Nick stood. "Oh, it's nothing, Mother," he mumbled. "Just an idea I had. What do I know about dress-making?"

"Not much, I'm sure -" Victoria agreed suspiciously. She would extract an explanation from one of them, eventually, she promised herself.

John, meanwhile, had been watching Hannah with fascination, and no small amount of admiration, since the moment she had stepped in to intervene. He was sure he had just seen something masterful, but he wasn't quite sure what it was. He knelt to give Heath a hand back to his feet.

"Heath. What the hell just happened there?"

He laughed. "What happened? Wish I was smart enough to explain. That's just Hannah. Looked to me like Rivka did the cuttin', but Hannah got 'im roped and tied."

"You got that right, my love," Rivka said, hugging him around his waist. "You think she ran circles around you before, now she's got teammates. Besides," she added, leaning in close to whisper, "I know all about the dresses."

He grinned. "Yes you do, darlin', that's a fact."

She gave him a kiss, handed him his hat, and dusted off the back of his shirt. "Now. How about some lunch, gentlemen? We've had the fancy meal up at the big house, now it's time for a Thanksgiving picnic in Hannah's back yard."

"That sounds like a taste of heaven to me."


	49. Chapter 49 - Hope of Orphans

_How like a winter hath my absence been_

 _From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!_

 _What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!_

 _What old December's bareness every where!_

 _And yet this time remov'd was summer's time;_

 _The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,_

 _Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,_

 _Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:_

 _Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me_

 _But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;_

 _For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,_

 _And, thou away, the very birds are mute:_

 _Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,_

 _That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near._

 _William Shakespeare, Sonnet 97_

Leaning on the unfinished fence, Heath hung back as the animated group moved across the pasture toward what was now Hannah's cabin. He saw Rivka link arms with Hannah, dipping her head to say something in her ear that caused the older woman to laugh out loud. Watching them, Heath felt a pull deep in his chest, a rough aching feeling that made him anxious and irritable.

 _Just ignore it. Find something to do and ignore it._

A brisk breeze was dancing erratically about the valley, and he felt it wrap around him briefly, chilling him as it dried his sweat-soaked shirt. It was an unwelcome reminder of just how hard he'd had to push himself that morning to keep up with his brother. He frowned in annoyance and deliberately looked away from the gathering picnic in one direction, and the long stretch of unfinished fence line in the other.

His eye fell on Nox, roaming now with Nike at the south end of the pasture. They trotted together, playfully, until they found another favorable spot to browse. Nox's long wavy black mane lifted and moved in the wind, and Nike danced around the larger horse as though challenging her to a race. Heath was suddenly reminded of his mother and Rachael. Leah was playful, petite; there was joy and a lightness in her movement and spirit that could always draw Rachael – and Heath - out from their brooding to laugh and smile. His breath caught, his vision all at once blurred with tears.

Shaking his head, frustrated, he wiped his eyes. _Just go pick up your tools, Heath._ He wondered if he would ever again feel like he was standing on solid ground. His mood, his thinking, his reactions to things - they were just all over the place. _Can't concentrate for more'n a few minutes, feels like. Or remember anything unless I write it down – and even then –_

He heard Nike whinny, and his gaze was drawn back to the pasture. He remembered how Nox was when Audra brought her to the ranch. Her malnourished appearance had been exaggerated by her 17-hand stature. She'd seemed at first sight to be all bones and scars and raging grief; she was a dark wraith, covered with barely healed wounds, each moment either fighting everything around her or standing frozen in fear.

He envied her a bit now, Heath admitted to himself. Her recovery had been dramatic. Her movement was full of grace and power, and she carried herself as a horse does when she knows that she is safe within her herd and loved.

 _Glad for her. And guess I should be glad I'm not a horse. If I were – well, lame and skittish as I am, if I was a horse, most outfits woulda just put me down months ago._

He pictured the foothills around Sonora where they hoped to find news of Peter and Ilsa. He knew that area intimately, and he thought about those two young people running for their lives, fleeing from Jasper's assault. He tried to imagine where the terrain would have led them in their flight. It was easy to come up with a scenario that ended in their death. What he was trying to see in his mind was the path that might have led them to safety. He thought of the joy that both the horse and the young couple would feel if they could be reunited. Heath was hoping almost desperately that they could bring a happy ending to that tale, he realized. He wanted to bring an end to mourning, somewhere, somehow, if not for himself, then at least for that small family.

He looked behind him then, northward, beyond the cabin to a stand of oak and pine up on a rise. There was the buckboard – Jarrod had driven it up there this morning. The two headstones were there. He and Hannah had picked out a place for them, but it remained for him to dig the spot and get them set in the ground. The cluster of trees wavered and flashed in the sunshine as tears again threatened. He took a step back, tilting his face to the sky and closing his eyes for a moment, a flare of anger turning over in his stomach. _Stop it. Can't even keep your mind on a simple thing. Just stop it. Go pick up the tools._

Turning abruptly, he limped along the fence line, wincing as he bent to pick up the shovels and pry bars he and Nick had been using. Seemed everything hurt today. The scars across his back and right knee burned like hellfire with every movement; when he put weight on his right leg, the fire just shifted to the ragged eschar of the bullet wound in his right flank.

There were moments, like this one, when it all seemed inescapable; the beat up mess of his body a fitting vessel for the torn up mess of his mind. It occurred to Heath that might have been part of the reason he let himself go after Nick. _Felt like hell already anyway, right, Heath? Might as well jump in the ring like everything's normal? Or maybe it's so you can pretend for a minute that the reason everything hurts is because you're just wrestling with your brother. Too bad the truth of it won't stay gone for more than a few minutes at a time –_

He came to the last posthole he had been digging. He'd gotten the shovel wedged good and stuck under a rock about two feet down. That was the point at which he'd finally acceded to Nick's demand for a water break. But now, sweating and swearing under his breath at the pain in his back, he set about trying to pull the shovel out. He was growing angry.

 _Who told you to put this ditch here, inmate?_

Startled, Heath flinched and frankly ducked, bracing himself for the blow his memory insisted was coming next. Would have fallen himself, were it not for the furious grip he still had on the shovel wedged in the ground.

Catching his balance, he stared breathless at the stony ground and the hole he had dug, his vision blurred by the memory of a terrible, oppressive heat that thickened the air. _What the hell – why – why this now, for God's sake, I'm home –_

There was that terrible sinking, falling sensation, like he was drowning in quicksand.

 _Oh, don't run off now, boy._ Laughter. An arm crushing his throat, the weight of the man pinning him to the ground.

Heath groaned, leaning his forehead on his hands as he struggled to block out that voice, the feeling of those hands moving over him, holding him down. Fought not to be dragged out of himself. _Get - get off me – damn you –_

The smoldering anger he'd been feeling all morning flared up white hot and he yanked on the shovel again, hard, heedless of the pain it caused.

 _Leave me alone, just let me dig my grave, please, just leave me alone. Is this ever going to stop -?_

He staggered back a step as the shovel suddenly came loose from the ground; his ribs and muscles and skin were now shouting their injuries at him so loud he could hardly hear anything else. With an inarticulate sound of pain and exhaustion, he sank down on one knee, his head bowed.

He heard laughter again, but it was fading _. He's dug his own grave, all right. How's about we just bury him right now?_

"Maybe that would've been a mercy," he said, speaking to the shovel in his hands. Then he lifted his head, a sad smile on his lips. "I'm guessing you don't think so, though, do you, Jarrod?"

"I don't think so, brother. What would be a mercy is you dropping that shovel, taking a break, and eating some lunch with your family." Jarrod spoke quietly. He had deliberately kept a little distance back so as not to startle Heath, but he was pleased that Heath was aware of his presence. That seemed to him to be a very hopeful sign.

He had backtracked from the cabin when he saw Heath hadn't come along with the group. Even from a distance, to Jarrod's eyes, his brother's posture and movement were broadcasting trouble. In that moment, Heath seemed to Jarrod to be trapped where he stood; trapped between his need to work and his unavoidable convalescence; between the hopeful beauty of horses in the field, and the gravestones awaiting his hand to dig them a place in the shaded grove; and most of all, between the brutal violence of his memory and his family's peaceful present. Moving to his brother's side, Jarrod could almost see the successive waves breaking over Heath as he worked, one after another pushing him down until finally he'd fallen to his knees. Jarrod had hurried back fully expecting to find Heath _gone away_ in his mind as he had previously.

"Heath, you're sore, hungry, and you pushed _way_ too hard this morning, don't even try to deny it. And tackling Nick? Not sure what you were thinking there. But, to paraphrase the wise words of Marshal Smith: with a little rest, food and the company of your charming family, you may discover you're not nearly as crazy as you think you are."

Heath looked back down at his hands, willing his body to relax and his hammering heart to slow down. The anger was receding, leaving behind only the considerable weight of pain and stiffness. "Not as crazy as I think I am. That would be a relief. At least I stayed put this time." He scrubbed his face with his hands and sighed. "But why –? I just wish I knew what happens - why the hell I – I – it's like I'm in a house with no walls sometimes. I can't live like that. Or maybe _I_ can, but ain't nobody else can live in there with me." His eyes went to the family out by the cabin, and then up to Jarrod's face. "Can I ask that of her? I don't want to lose her, Jarrod, I don't think I'd survive that. I can barely stand the thought that she's going back to San Francisco."

To Heath's surprise, Jarrod just took this in and laughed. " _Lose_ her? You honestly think you could _get_ her to leave you? You and what army, may I ask?" He held out a hand to help Heath back up to standing. " _By your truth she shall be true, ever true, as wives of yore. And her Yes, once said to you, shall be Yes, for evermore_."

Now it was Heath who laughed. "Whose poetry is that, counselor, yours?"

"No, Elizabeth Barrett Browning," Jarrod replied, smiling. He put a hand on Heath's shoulder, turning to look north with him over the new barn and paddocks and the now-lively cabin; beyond that, to the grove where the headstones would be placed; and to the beautiful rolling, rising land beyond. "This is just the beginning, what you're building here, Heath. Did you know that I just completed papers to buy another 4,000 acres, from our northern boundary line to beyond the Mokelumne?"

Heath whistled. "That's a beautiful stretch of land – and nice long stretch of river, too."

"Seems to me it's the logical spread to expand this horse-breeding operation of yours – and whatever else you'd choose to do with it. Like maybe build a house for you and your bride? Maybe up on that perfect, lovely rise just over there?"

Heath found himself staring dumbly at the spot Jarrod was indicating. It wasn't exactly the fortune that Jarrod had just so casually bestowed upon him that had rendered him speechless. It was the dizzying mental shift from anxious despair to a hopeful future that his brother had just orchestrated, and the fact that it was precisely the hilltop Heath would have chosen, one where he'd many times tried to imagine a home to which he could bring Rivka as his wife.

"Building a home takes patience, skill, hard work, common sense, love – and help. Right? All of which you have in abundance, Heath. I have to think the same is true of putting yourself back together. I know better than to bet against you, brother. As you said to me once, Heath - from behind bars as I remember - I put my money on you, and it's staying on you."


	50. Chapter 50 - Epilogue

Well before dawn, Heath rose silently from his bed. He kissed Rivka, sleeping peacefully in a halo of tousled dark hair. She smiled without fully waking, and he left a note for her on the bedside table before he slipped out the door. A few minutes later, he was riding Charger north, picking his way carefully through the fog that had gathered overnight.

He skirted around Hannah's cabin, resisting the urge to step in quietly and stoke her wood stove so it would be hot when she woke. She had already warned him off, knowing he'd be up and around early on this day.

"Don't you come in, you'll just wake me, and I don't want you using so much firewood so early in the winter. I'll be nice and cozy in my bed until it's time to get up."

He continued on up the rise and into the grove, where Jarrod had left the buckboard the day before. Heath had made sure the tools he needed were stowed in the back of the wagon yesterday as well, so he wouldn't have to make a lot of noise riding out with them this morning. He dismounted, removed Charger's tack and stowed it in the wagon, then haltered him with a long lead line so he could graze nearby while Heath worked.

The fog drifted in and around the grove, muffling the ambient noise but amplifying every crunch of the gravel under his boot and every scrape of his tools along the floor of the wagon. Glancing in the buckboard, he felt a tightening of his throat, and decided not to uncover the stones just yet. He would start with digging out the two sites he and Hannah had marked. He gathered a pickaxe, a shovel, a pry bar, and a mattock for shaping the sides of the hole; then he lit the lantern hanging beside the driver's box and raised it above eye level, the yellow glow illuminating and reflecting off the drifting mist around him.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to assess the state of the weather inside his head. He wanted to keep this task peaceful and simple. He wanted to stay focused on what it was he was doing. His head, though – well, to be plain about it, he had become so skittish and unpredictably spooky, he could easily see how the task at hand could spin him off sideways. Gravestones, digging, fog – this was truly starting to look like a very bad idea.

 _Maybe I should have gotten at least my brothers out here to help me do this,_ Heath thought, still standing by the buckboard.

"Yes, you definitely should have, Brother Heath," said Jarrod.

Heath jumped, losing his grip on the pickaxe and narrowly missing dropping it on his foot. He spun to see his brother riding out of the fog into the circle of lamplight. Heath wondered, and not for the first time this week, how it was that Jarrod seemed to know what he was thinking. " _Dammit_ , Jarrod –"

"Sorry. I suppose I should have given you some warning."

"That would have been the polite thing to do. What are you doing here?"

"You've done this task once on your own, Heath. No way am I letting that happen again."

Heath was dumbstruck. "But –" He turned, hearing the sound of wagon wheels approaching.

"And by the way, there are several more people coming."

Familiar voices now carried to him through the fog. Heath was confused. He was expecting Hannah to join him here later, and Silas and Rivka had planned to come up after breakfast. Even on the heels of their trip to Strawberry, it still had never occurred to Heath that this task was something in which the Barkleys should - or would want to - participate.

While Heath was still fumbling over how to think about this turn of events, another buckboard appeared, driven by Nick and carrying the rest of the household.

"Well, that was fun, rousting an entire houseful of people to run out into the fog to catch up with you, Heath," Nick hailed loudly. "Y'know, you could've planned to do this in a few hours, in daylight, when people are mostly awake. Or are you trying for this ghost story, Halloween kind of feeling?"

Nick's words tumbled and bounced around him, but Heath wasn't really listening to what he was saying. He just stood there with the lantern in one hand and half his tools in the other, at a loss how to respond.

John and Victoria shared a look, and then John hopped down from the wagon and walked over to Heath. He took the lantern from his hand, handing it to Jarrod, and then gathered the tools and leaned them against the wagon wheel. He put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Heath," he said, "no worries. You're here to set these headstones for your Mama and your Aunt Rachael. If it's ok with you, we're here to stand with you and Hannah and help you with that. That's all. We never had the chance to know Leah and Rachael, but we know you. And so this gives us a chance to honor these two women who raised up the young man we love so much."

Just as during their talk on the trail up to Strawberry, John's simple explanation was as surprising as it was illuminating; Heath found himself speechless again as he considered the Marshal's words. He realized the degree to which he still kept his Barkley life and his Thomson life in two carefully separated boxes. But what John had said pointed to something that went very deep, and Heath had a feeling it was going to take him a while to think it through.

All his life, Heath had been the reason for his mother's exile; because of his birth, his mother was ostracized, and because he continued to exist - because she loved him - her punishment continued until the day she died. Rachael, too, was doubly exiled; first, for loving Leah, and second, for loving Leah's bastard son. Hannah, who mothered them all, in some ways drew the least explicit hostility, because she was a Negro woman, and thus invisible, or considered of no account to the white folks.

And so, all his life, Heath had cherished them, but held them protectively close to his heart. It was a rare person in his life who could see and understand the whole of Heath's family. Frank was one of those, and Rivka and Hadassah. Standing now in this place, he wondered: how is it possible that **_he_** , whose very existence brought such hardship upon his family, could suddenly become a bridge, the means by which their memory would be honored by this Barkley family, by the one family who actually had any reason at all to be angry at Leah? How was that possible?

Heath looked at Victoria, who was smiling gently at him, and he realized the depth to which he believed himself to be a curse upon his mother's life, no matter how much she told him otherwise. He wondered if he could learn to change that belief. He shook his head with a bemused smile, and admitted to himself that, mystified and confused as he was, still he was very, very glad they had come to help and to stand with him and Hannah while they remembered their Leah and their Rachael. He looked at the faces around him, and then looked up at John and nodded.

"So," John said, "how about you show us where the digging needs to be done, and then your brothers and I will do the heavy lifting. Victoria and Audra have some things to plant, Silas brought food, Hannah will be with you, and Rivka brought - rocks?"

"It's a Jewish thing," she said, coming over to stand by Heath. "I'll explain later."

Not long after the foggy sunrise, the headstones had been set in and levelled, Audra had planted some perennials around the stones, and then she and Victoria planted a cherry tree on either side of the paired markers. Hannah and Silas sang some favorite hymns, and Rivka sang a blessing for the dead in Hebrew and placed a perfect, smooth river rock on top of each headstone, one black, one white. She told John that leaving such a token at a grave was an ancient Jewish tradition. "There are many explanations that can be offered, but my father always said that while flowers remind us of the fleeting fragile beauty of life, a stone speaks of the endurance of memory and love, and so we always leave one when we visit a grave."

After they all shared some coffee and breakfast, the group began to sort themselves out to move on with the day. Heath and Rivka climbed bareback onto Charger; he was taking her up to visit the hill where he had envisioned their home. Silas and Nick packed up their wagon and prepared to cart everyone back to the house.

Jarrod retrieved Jingo and got his saddle back on. He lingered by the markers for a long while after his family had left, his expression sad. He was lost in the memory of the vision of these two women that had come to him up in Strawberry.

 _Did you know how little time you would have to mother this boy before he was off on his own into the world? Before the war would take him away at the age of thirteen? Could you feel how quickly that future would come upon you, so you had to pour all your love and teaching and warnings and scolding and laughter into so brief a time?_

"Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all," he said softly. "Leah, Rachael, thank you."

He heard a quiet step behind him.

"You have a bit of the Sight, don't you, brother Jarrod?"

"I don't know about that, Hannah," he said, smiling, his eyes still on the headstones. "It's funny, though. I can see them, in my memory, as if I knew them. I feel the loss, as if I'd known them all my life."

She came to his side and slipped her arm through his. "Perhaps in a way you have." She smiled up at him. "You did good with Heath yesterday. He needs reminding these days to keep his eyes on the prize. The past has its teeth in him now, more than it ever did, and might be it won't ever stop yankin' on him like it does. But you did good turnin' his eyes back to the path he's on."

"I hope so, Hannah."

"C'mon, sing with me while you walk me back to my house."

 _Got my hands on the gospel plow_

 _Wouldn't take nothin for my journey now_

 _Keep your eyes on the prize_

 _Hold on_

 _Hold on_

The sound of the joyous, rhythmic song drifted up from the grove, following them as Heath allowed Charger to pick his own path and his own pace to the summit of the hill. He smiled, feeling the weight on his heart lifting just a bit, and he took a deep breath.

 _Keep your eye on the prize, hold on_

 _Hold on_

Rivka sighed contentedly as she rested her cheek against the back of Heath's shoulder, enjoying the feeling of his warmth against her body as she rode behind him. It was midmorning now, and the late-rising sun had chased off most of the ground clouds. Pockets of fog still remained in low and shadowed areas, but as the big bay horse ambled to the top of the rise, the view became expansive, and the mists gleamed white in the sun, an artful decoration enhancing the beauty of the landscape.

"This is the spot."

"Heath, it is beautiful. Beautiful. I know next to nothing about building houses, so I'll have to trust your judgement on things like water and construction and foundations and such, but as a place to be with you, no question, it is perfect." She tightened her arms around his waist and leaned forward to kiss his cheek, then laughed as Charger tossed his head and danced a bit on the summit of the hill.

 _How like a winter hath my absence been from thee, my love,_ she thought. Rivka had found the sonnet on her bedside table when she rose early that morning, weighted down by a small bouquet of asters and a petite, perfect apple fresh from the orchard. The poem had been written out in Heath's fluid, slanting cursive. The grace of his handwriting surprised and amused her, back when they were still children. He always accepted her teasing with equanimity, but his Aunt Rachel had taught him that being able to write well could open doors for him when he had to go out in the world and work, just like having good manners, and she had insisted he learn both.

This morning, he had clearly taken extra care with his penmanship, the black ink flowing over a lovely heavy piece of cream-colored stationary she suspected was donated from Audra's writing desk. He had risen well before sunrise to ride out to the grove by the cabin to prepare the area where they would place the headstones. The words of the sonnet made her heart ache with past sadness and with the joy of being able to hold him in her arms again.

It had stirred some worry in her as well, to be honest. She was aware of the depth to which Heath's confidence in himself had been shaken by the events of the summer. The verse – while loving and complimentary - still hinted at a man separated from his own ability to find joy and beauty in the world around him. This was not the Heath she knew, and she sensed both love and fear behind his choice of words.

Eight months they were together in Carterson; she was twelve, he was fifteen. After the camp's liberation in 1865, he had lived mostly as an itinerant cowboy, while she came to womanhood in her family's home in Albuquerque. Over the ten years they had known each other, through letters and visits, their connection had grown and strengthened, despite the fact that they were separated far more than they were together. They became lovers on the eve of her departure to study medicine in Philadelphia.

Four years passed, and still they wrote. Their letters reached across thousands of miles; written with love and humor and honesty, they helped each other along: she, navigating the uncharted and often hostile and lonely waters of a woman in medicine; he, working and supporting his family in Strawberry; and then making his way through these tumultuous past two years that saw the death of Leah and Rachael, and Heath's entry into this Barkley family. Rivka was well aware of how much he had relied on her, as well as her mother, for his support and sounding board through those times. She and her mother had been worried for him after Rachael's death; they could sense the same brittleness that Hannah had perceived, and, like her, they had not seen a way to draw him out of his self-imposed exile.

When she came to him in Nevada, Rivka could easily see the shame and grief he felt, reuniting with her under such dire circumstances. Imprisoned in the present, he felt trapped in the past, and his desire to insulate her from that threat was palpable. Those fears had eased, and she believed that Heath had come a long way just in the past weeks toward setting aside the burden of guilt and failure with which he had condemned himself. He was allowing himself now to begin to come home, _really_ come home – but now, the crisis over, the monumental task of putting himself back together was looming large. Heath was beginning to realize that he might not, in fact, recover - at least not fully. Not in his mind, nor in his body.

Rivka could hear the questions murmuring and rattling in the background with almost everything he did: he was constantly testing, constantly wondering - _is this as good as it's going to get?_ Many things continued to improve, but every time he encountered a setback - a relapse of pain, for example, or the hallucinatory intrusion of memories, or even difficulty with a simple task for which he didn't yet have the strength - those questions carried their own kind of grief, and anger, and fear. Heath feared, Rivka knew, that he would drown without her; even more, he feared that he wouldn't ever recover enough to rightly ask her to join her life with his.

They had talked for hours after the lunchtime picnic at Hannah's cabin. They had settled a few topics under debate. Rivka laid out her list of non-negotiable assumptions that must be stipulated to before any other discussion, as follows: First: She intended to become Heath's wife. Second: Heath was to set aside any ideas that he was unsuitable, unworthy, or otherwise too impaired to become her husband. Failure to drop that notion would earn him a serious talking-to, and would not in any way alter the fact of her first stipulation.

(Regarding the first stipulation, she felt the wedding should take place in October of the coming year. At that time she will have completed her year of training in San Francisco, and her family could travel up from San Diego, after the High Holy Days in September. Those details they could work out later.)

Third: She thought the building of a home for them on a hilltop sounded perfect, and she wondered if it could be done by next October.

Fourth: There was absolutely **_no way_** Heath was going on a quest after two missing violinists without her. She'd been cooped up in the city for weeks, and heading out on the trail with Heath and John and Audra sounded like heaven. She'd already wired Lotte (Dr. Charlotte Blake Brown, her supervisor and one of the founders of the Pacific Dispensary) in San Francisco and offered to cover the Christmas holiday at the hospital in exchange for postponing her return from Stockton.

Heath, for his part, found his head spinning a bit, and couldn't come up with much in the way of stipulations of his own. He was surprised and frankly overjoyed that Rivka would join them on the trail to Sonora.

He agreed to marry her wherever and whenever she so desired; he would marry her over and over again if that's what she wanted.

As far as his own state of health, Heath solemnly agreed to do his best to have faith _and_ have patience with himself as he labored through the process of putting himself back together; but at absolute minimum he promised to be honest about it, to her, and to himself.

And yes, he could build her a house by next October. Absolutely. Yes. He could build a home for the two of them and the family they hoped to have. He felt as sure of it right then as he'd felt about anything in his life. The thought steadied him, gave him a feeling of peace he'd not felt for a very long time. It beckoned him, as a trailmarker that drew his sight on and up to the path forward; he looked into Rivka's eyes and heard voices singing home.


End file.
